Instrument of Darkness
by Austin and Ally Go 1 Direction
Summary: "And often times to win us to our harm, the instruments of darkness tell us truths, win us with honest trifles, to betray in deepest consequence," -Banquo, Macbeth. When the rest of the world fears the darkness within you, it hardly seems polite to disagree. Sherlolly as Reylo StarWars!Lock AU.
1. Instrument of Darkness

Destiny could be a funny thing.

Some believed in it, and some didn't. Some put faith in it, and others shoved it away so quickly that they often failed to realize that it had snuck up on them from behind just as they lost sight of it ahead.

There were those who claimed that destiny wasn't what was written, but what would come to unfold, merely equating it with another term for the future.

And then there were the fanatics who felt that destiny was something that could be beaten, be _defeated,_ as though it was a tangible foe to tackle.

But a few knew destiny for what it was.

And more importantly, for what it could be.

/

The first time Sherlock ever saw her…

Well, to be honest, he can't quite recall the first time his eyes laid upon her rather indistinguishable figure.

In all fairness, he had been quite young at the time – six, seven, somewhere around there. He hadn't bothered to completely commit the date to memory, as his first few days at the Jedi Academy were rather blurred and forgotten. He had been young – that he knew – and still reeling from the undefinable ache of losing his parents and older brother.

The world moved too fast, and little Sherlock had been unable to fully grasp all of it.

His only solid memories of those days contained fragments of Master Lestrade, as the older man had tried to make Sherlock comfortable and explain to him the intricacies of the gift that Sherlock had been given.

As far as he had been concerned, Lestrade could shove his so-called gift where the sun didn't shine so long as Sherlock could once again be with his brother.

Unfortunately, neither option was viable. Master Lestrade explained that the users did not choose the Force, but that rather the Force chose its users. And more importantly, Sherlock's family was… gone, and he needed to accept that if he ever wanted to find balance and control the gift that he had been given, rather than destroying everything in fits of passion as the emotions plagued him.

There was no question about it – those first few days were… muddy. He was sure he had first met her then, along with the other seventy-three students living on Yavin IV at the time. But for the life of him he couldn't drudge up the memory.

In the end, it wasn't like it mattered though. He had plenty to make up for it.

/

"No."

"Please, Sherlock."

" _No."_

"Do you want me to fetch Master Lestrade?"

Sherlock grumbled while crossing his arms even tighter, presenting the stubbornest six-year-old that the instructor had ever had the displeasure of teaching.

"There's no need to get him," a familiar voice rang out. "He's already here."

The little boy found his posture softening ever so slightly at the warm-yet-exasperated tone. He'd never admit it aloud, but even after three weeks at the Academy, attending classes and being forced to interact with the others, he still was only truly comfortable around Master Lestrade – a fact that the other students never failed to exploit.

"Now, Sherlock," the boy in question felt the familiar presence move behind him, followed by a warm hand on his bony shoulder. "What's the issue?"

The instructor – really an idiot from Sherlock's perspective – rudely answered for him.

"He refuses to partner up for the group activities."

Something tugged turbulently in the air, as Sherlock whipped his head around to scowl at the infuriating man. "Only because they're all a bunch of bantha fodder!"

The air shifted.

The instructor took half a step back.

Sherlock fought to control his temper. He knew – or had been lectured, actually – on the negative effects of succumbing to the darkness and feeding off its energy. It was one of the reasons that the other students whispered behind his back, and the teachers gave him concerned looks when they thought he wasn't aware.

That was the problem though.

Sherlock was _always_ aware. It was a curse that he didn't understand. A connection that he seemed to have to everything. It made the world too loud, the people too obnoxious, and Sherlock's head feel like it could never keep up with it all.

Master Lestrade had said it was Sherlock's natural connection to the dark side of the Force.

For some reason, Sherlock was naturally drawn to the dangerous darkness that seemed to lurk within him. It was instinct, almost as easy as breathing.

And it also gave him a terrible power that he wanted no part of.

He wasn't sure where it came from. When Master Lestrade had found him huddled in the burnt remains of his once-home, he had said that the light and the dark of the Force were natural essences of energy, and that it was actually common for someone to lean more towards a certain side than the other.

Of course, usually that side was the light, and generally the leaning did not equate complete immersion.

Somewhere along the line, however, Sherlock must have really pissed off whoever was responsible for the distribution of the Force.

Not that there was someone though, as he had been told repeatedly in the boring lessons he was forced to attend.

As Sherlock finally managed to calm the storm that was raging within him, Master Lestrade just eyed him contemplatively, his left hand never moving from his chin and his right still firmly placed on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I want him to partner with Molly."

The instructor finally seemed to start out of whatever trance of hesitation he had been stuck in. "I'm afraid she's attending her own advance classes at the moment, Master."

Lestrade's eyes never wavered from Sherlock's own. "No matter. She can miss a day of class. In fact, her natural predisposition for the light might help balance out Sherlock."

The instructor didn't look like he wanted to agree – his mouth was pressed into a hard line, and his shoulders were just slightly more tense than normal. But in the end, he gave a sharp nod. "Of course, Master. I'll fetch her myself." And like that he was gone, leaving Sherlock alone with Lestrade.

The boy broke eye contact first, diverting his attention to where his toe was scuffing the earthen floor. For a long moment, neither said anything. Then:

"Do me one favour, Sherlock," Master Lestrade had lowered his voice so that none of the other curious ears – the majority of which were not so discreetly turned towards them – could hear. "Give her a chance. Be nice. She's different from the rest, and will be a good friend for you, if you let her."

Sherlock maintained his silence. Lestrade let out an exasperated breath, but was saved from coming up with another cajole by two sets of footsteps – one most definitely lighter than the other's.

"Molly," Lestrade stood up straight with a smile on his face, a notable tone of relief in his voice. "Thank you for coming. Sherlock here needs a partner for the exercises, and I would like you to fulfill that role for today please."

"Of course, Master."

Sherlock refused to turn around. "Excellent." Master Lestrade gave him one last stern look. "Be nice, Sherlock." And then he was gone, along with that oaf of an instructor.

Biting his lip, Sherlock pasted the nastiest scowl he could muster onto his face and turned around.

He was severely disappointed.

The girl was about his height, though perhaps an inch shorter. Her mousy-brown hair was pulled back into a simple braid, and she smiled at him with such inherent goodness that Sherlock thought he was going to be sick.

Master Lestrade was crazy if he thought that this was going to work.

The girl – Molly – ignored his scowl. "Well," her grin broadened, if that was even possible. "Shall we get started?"

Sherlock eyed the girl with disdain.

"I suppose," he grumbled, still unaware of what a cataclysmically life-changing presence she would be in his life.

/

Sherlock truly hated the Academy.

And it seemed that everyone at the Academy save for Master Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson – the old lady who tended to meal preparation – hated Sherlock.

And then there was Molly.

Molly didn't seem to hate Sherlock at all.

It was strange at first, having another child his age be willing to not just tolerate his presence, but seem to enjoy it as well. After twenty minutes of pulling teeth during that first partner exercise together, Sherlock came to the stunning conclusion that although Molly Hooper was much too cheery for anybody's good, she was also clever.

And Sherlock loved clever people.

She was nowhere near as clever as him, of course. Even without the enhancement that the darkness seemed to provide him, Sherlock knew that he was smart. He always had been. And while Molly didn't have a natural prowess for observation, she was intellectually intuitive and intriguing.

Plus, she somehow managed to weather Sherlock's foul temper with a smile and a laugh.

He eventually gave up scowling when he realized that it bothered her none, and silently resigned himself to her presence – a presence that he had to admit wasn't altogether repellent either.

She was a few months younger than him, but her naturally strong connection to the Force had moved her into the training regimen for the higher years. She was a walking embodiment of the light side of the Force, and rather than being repelled, Sherlock found himself fascinated with her absolute goodness.

It was strange, really. Sherlock knew that it was impossible for her to be ignorant of the whisperings concerning him. She _had_ to have known about the ever-looming darkness that seemed to have sunk its clutches into his chest and refused to leave. She _had_ to have known of the incidents that he had had since he'd been at the Academy. And she _had_ to have known that people – especially good people like her – should've avoided him at all cost.

And yet, she treated him no differently than any other student, even though he wasn't.

He was Sherlock Holmes, the cursed child who found the dark side of the Force all too tempting.

Molly didn't seem to care, however. In fact, it was almost irksome how she smiled at him so winsomely, as though they had been best friends since infancy and hadn't just met. He tried to use his annoyance to fuel a hatred for her like he did for everyone else, only it didn't work.

For the darkness that was usually too easily accessible for him, was suppressed in her presence.

And for the first time in a long time, Sherlock could _breath._

Weeks following that first encounter, Sherlock tried to convince himself that it was that fact that kept drawing him back to her presence. That he simply wanted a reprieve from the darkness that constantly consumed him, and that was why each passing day found him spending more and more time in her presence.

He certainly didn't like her.

No matter how many times she smiled at him as though he was the universe incarnate.

/

"You need to learn to _breathe,_ Sherlock."

The young boy in question did his best not to grind his teeth, choosing instead to ignore the pesky voice over his shoulder. The air stilled and he felt something within him settle, before quaking slightly with his next breath. Focusing harder on the calm, he tried to grasp onto it, almost having it in reach-

"Scrunching your eyes up like you're constipated doesn't help with the process."

"Oh, sod off!" Sherlock finally burst, eyes flying open as the energy around him was pulled taunt in frustration. "These breathing exercises are bantha fodder!"

Master Lestrade merely raised an unimpressed eyebrow.

"Yes, well, that _bantha fodder_ is going to make your life a lot easier if you just put some effort into it," Lestrade shot back before sighing. "Your connection to the dark side of the Force is powerful, Sherlock. You need to create an equally powerful connection to the light if you ever want any hope of finding balance."

The boy grumbled to himself in discontent before saying petulantly: "Well maybe I don't _want_ balance."

The older man stared at him sadly, and long enough for Sherlock to feel foolish for losing his temper. He fidgeted awkwardly.

And then Lestrade repeated the mantra that brought all of Sherlock's righteous fury raging back to the surface.

"This isn't about what you _want_ Sherlock, but rather, it's about what you _need."_

Sherlock hated, hated, _hated_ that sentence.

And he expressed his disapproval in an angry bellow. "Who are you to say what I need and don't? You're not my brother!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, Sherlock wished that he could pluck them from the air and shove them back into his mouth. Their release had punctured whatever dam he had built around still raw emotions, and his next gasp of air brought with it the all too familiar feel of darkness and pain. He found himself spiralling deeper and deeper into the abyss. _His brother._ The ache that tore at his chest was unimaginable. Sure, he missed his parents – his mother's gentle caresses and his father's fond smiles.

But his missed Myc the most.

His older brother had been his best friend, his confidant, _his hero._ No one could be as amazing as Myc, and as a result, no one could fill the gaping hole that he had left behind either.

It had been months, but the pain of his loss still hadn't dulled. If anything, the ache grew worse as the darkness seemed to feed off of what was left. He was drowning in the darkness, and gasping for something he couldn't find. Air had been replaced with nothing more than mounting despair, and no matter how his lungs screamed, how hard he inhaled, he was choking, choking, choking on nothing and everything.

Perhaps it would just be easier to give in, and surrender to that which he couldn't defeat…

A sharp brilliance of pain pulled Sherlock out of his misery.

He blinked twice, his tiny hands coming up to cover his already throbbing cheek, as he turned his broken eyes to the terrified man who was grasping his shoulders.

Sherlock didn't hesitate to bury his face in the older Jedi's robes as the sobs wracked his petite frame. He didn't care that it was unbecoming for a boy of his age to behave as he was. All he knew was that for a moment he couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, _he couldn't breathe._

Lestrade didn't hesitate to wrap the frightened boy in his arms, trying to hide the way that his own body was shaking with fear.

"It's alright, Sherlock," he comforted in hushed tones, his words hollow even to his own ears. "I promise that everything's going to be alright."

/

Their sticks clashed relentlessly, battering out the noise of the others training.

Molly laughed as she easily maneuvered away from Sherlock's lunge, lighter on her feet than Sherlock could ever imagine being.

"C'mon Sherlock," her mouth twisted into a teasing grin, as she spun her wooden staff with a natural ease. "At least put a little effort into it."

Despite his mounting annoyance at being so easily taunted, Sherlock found his mouth twisting into an awkwardly fond smile, even as he rolled his eyes exasperatedly. He had grown to admire the way that she would shamelessly tease him as though he were any other student. It was a refreshing break from the tip-toeing that everyone else did around him.

It was nearing six months since Sherlock had been brought to Yavin IV, and although there were still many aspects of his life that left plenty to be desired, there were also some parts that he wouldn't give up for the world.

Molly Hooper was one of those parts.

Despite the fact that Master Lestrade had forced her to return to her own training regimen a few weeks after Sherlock had adjusted to the Academy, she still sought him out in her spare time. And although Sherlock had been wary at first, he had grown to accept one undeniable fact.

He liked Molly Hooper.

And he was going to keep her as his friend.

She could still be ridiculously annoying at the best of times, but there was also a soothing presence to her that cleared Sherlock's chaotic mind and allowed him to feel at peace for once.

The other students still whispered, and he had noticed that they had begun to shun Molly as well when she had made no effort to hide her affection for him. The one time that he'd mentioned it though she had looked at him as though he had stated that hutts could fly.

"So what if they avoid me?" she had retorted back with a frown. "I have you."

She then proceeded to jab her fingers into his side, resulting in Sherlock letting out an undignified yelp before she ran off in a fit of giggles. Despite the redness of his ears, Sherlock had smiled and quickly ran after her.

He was brought back to the present with a whap to his side that was slightly more forceful than it was supposed to be.

He glowered at his friend.

She gave him a smile that was too toothy to be innocent. He responded with another eyeroll before lunging at her the way he was taught to do.

Physical training was one of the few classes that they had together. Although Molly was much more ahead of him on the Force aspect of things, Sherlock was still more adept when it came to physical training and intellectual prowess, resulting in the two sharing the gruelling class.

And while Molly was lighter on her feet, Sherlock was much more lethal in his strategy.

It was only a few moments more before Molly misplaced her footing, sending her entire position askance. Her staff swung around dangerously as her arms wheeled for balance. Sherlock saw what was going to happen a moment before it did, and reached out to try and steady her.

His efforts ended with both of them letting out grunts of pain as they fell in a heap of limbs on the floor. Sherlock was aware of a few of the other students letting out snickers, but he ignored them, instead turning his attention to Molly.

"Are you alright?"

She let out a groan of humiliation. "I hate physical training."

Sherlock couldn't hide the laughter that escaped him.

/

He couldn't escape.

But more importantly, Sherlock couldn't _breathe._

He was running through the darkness, wading through his fear. Trying – and failing – to evade the creature that sought to sink its talons into his body.

 _Sherlock…_

His flesh prickled with goose bumps as the voice pierced his consciousness. Even in his murky state of fear Sherlock knew that the voice wasn't a figment of his nightmare.

Somehow, it was real.

And for some reason, it wanted Sherlock.

He pushed his legs farther, even as the darkness suffocated him more. Tendrils of heat licked at his legs, and the darkness that he was drowning in turned to smoke as fire seared around him and-

"Sherlock, _wake up!"_

A burst of light had the little boy sitting up in bed, gasping for breath as his unseeing eyes clawed at reality. His chest heaved with fear, and the tears were flowing freely down his cheeks as he finally managed to focus on the saviour who had rescued him from the dangers of sleep.

 _Molly._

She was dressed in her uniformed nightgown, and her slightly askew hair suggested her own sudden waking. Her hands were on his shoulders as though she had just managed to shake him awake.

"Molly?" his voice was scratchy with sleep, though the strain in it was suggestive of something else as well. "What happened?"

For the first that he could remember, Molly's smile was gone and her eyes shone with fear.

But not fear _of_ him. Fear _for_ him.

"You were having a nightmare," she said, hands gripping his shoulders even harder, but he didn't dare wince lest she let go. "I-I don't actually know what happened. But it was as though I could _feel_ your panic through the Force. It woke me up and I ran here as quickly as I could."

Sherlock's mind was cloudy. Had he inadvertently called out to her? He didn't even know that was possible. She was by far the strongest life that he could sense through the Force, but he had always presumed that was just because they spent so much time together and that he had familiarized himself with her Force signature. He hadn't realized how deep that connection actually went.

She was still staring at him with concern. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock swallowed hard around the dryness of his throat. No, he was not okay. But he didn't want to worry his friend, so he offered her a shaky smile instead.

"Yeah," he couldn't meet her eyes. "Sorry that I woke you."

Molly didn't look convinced. Hell, Sherlock wasn't convinced. But she nodded her head all the same, finally releasing him.

"Alright-" No, it wasn't alright. "-I should head back to my room then before someone notices that I'm missing."

Sherlock agreed with the logic of her statement. Within the moment he was able to analyse exactly why what she said made so much sense: First, it was against the rules to be out of your quarters after curfew. The Academy was strict in that sense, and Sherlock wasn't exactly keen on seeing how far he could bend the boundaries.

Even more so, Lestrade and the other Masters absolutely forbade males and females from being in each others' rooms. Jedi were not supposed to form deep connections with each other, and while Sherlock still wasn't overtly familiar with what happened in a bedroom between a boy and a girl, he knew that whatever happened certainly threw the adults into a hullabaloo because it enabled deeper relationships to form.

Sherlock wasn't exactly sure what he and Molly would get up to that would meet those expectations, but he had seen Lestrade get angry, and it wasn't exactly something Sherlock wanted to provoke.

The fact that Molly was in his room and _after_ curfew was a whole other can of worms in itself. Although Sherlock knew that Lestrade tended to bend the rules when it came to the newer recruit anyways, he didn't quite believe that this would fly with the Jedi Master.

In less than half a breath these facts flew through Sherlock's mind, and it wasn't even a moment later that he found himself agreeing with Molly's assessment of the situation.

But that still didn't stop the panic from skewering Sherlock's senses as she went to turn away.

Any calmness that had come along with her presence and had settled his nerves dispersed as she pulled away, and the creeping darkness that he knew was waiting for him caused his hand to lunge out and grab a hold of her own.

" _Wait!"_ Sherlock whisper shouted in fear. "Please, don't go. I…" he trailed off as he bit his lip, unsure of what to say. His ears were burning but he could care less about the mortification. He just didn't want to be left at the mercy of the darkness again.

Molly seemed to understand without him saying so. Wordlessly, she crawled into bed with him, nudging him over in order to make room for two on the small cot. Her hand stayed firmly interlocked with his own, even as she snuggled further into the sheets. "Don't worry Sherlock," she mumbled as sleep began to claim her again. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sherlock listened as her breathing steadied out.

And he revelled in the stillness that he only ever experienced in her presence.

To hell with the consequences. He knew that if they were caught, the result would not be pretty. But as his eyelids grew heavy with sleep once more, and he comforted himself with her hand in his, Sherlock couldn't really bring himself to care.

It would only be for the one night.

Just one night, he promised himself. One night to finally sleep in peace.

/

One night turned into many nights.

And many nights turned into every night.

/

Time passed. Although Sherlock still very much stood out as the odd one in his new environment, he slowly started to ingratiate himself better. It was almost as though the darkness had receded and given up on him. Although it still lingered like an afterthought, it no longer choked him at every possible moment.

And somehow, he had Molly Hooper to thank for that.

There was just something about her presence that seemed to banish the darkness from Sherlock's life. He knew not whether it was her ardent connection to the light, or merely her almost annoyingly cheery disposition that was to blame, but truthfully, he could care less.

He never slept alone anymore. Every night once the light had all but disappeared from the Academy, and all others were already deeply entrenched in the netherworld of sleep, his door would creak open and Molly Hooper would silently crawl into his bed. Very rarely were words passed between them. Rather, her small hand would intertwine with his own, and the two of them would drift off into a blissfully silent sleep.

The nightmares never returned, and neither did the shadowy figure.

In the morning they would rise at the crack of dawn, and Molly would stealthily return to her own chambers for her last few hours of sleep. While she always advised Sherlock to do the same, the boy would instead stay up and meditate on the peace that always came with her presence, doing his best to forge his own connection to the light.

It never worked, but it was a much safer activity than attempting to sleep on his own.

It was only months later, that Sherlock realized with a jolt how utterly dependent he had become on Molly Hooper.

Surprisingly, it was not as disturbing of a thought as it should have been.

Sherlock hadn't felt this close to anyone since his older brother had died. It was a slightly absurd and very new feeling, but not altogether unpleasant. In fact, it was almost as though it made life bearable.

Which was perhaps why he didn't automatically oppose it when his mind moved Molly Hooper from 'Useful Friend' to 'Potential Best Friend.'

/

"Well, well, well," a cruel voice smirked. "If it isn't Holmes and Hooper."

Despite the warmth of the afternoon sun, Sherlock immediately tensed as a finger of ice slithered down his spine, his fingers tightening ever so slightly on the book in his grasp. Molly, who had been idly laying beside him and tinkering with some electronic that she had found, sat up immediately, an unhappy frown marring her visage.

"Jim," Sherlock could barely keep the dislike from his voice as he pasted on a fake smile. It fell almost immediately. "What do you want?"

It had been over two years since Sherlock had come to the Academy, and while he still wasn't the most admirable student (that title went to Molly without a doubt) he had at least gotten better at interacting with some of the others.

Unfortunately, Jim Moriarty was not privileged to be counted amongst that group.

A snake of a boy, Jim was a year younger than Sherlock, but having been raised on Yavin IV and being well advanced when it came to their Force training, Jim was well respected and liked by nearly everyone on the planet.

The two exceptions being Sherlock and Molly.

The younger boy had taking a liking to teasing Sherlock, and had made it a near-daily game to see how far he could push the older boy. Molly found it abysmal and had wanted to inform the Masters of exactly what Jim did in his free time, but Sherlock had begged her to maintain her silence, not wanting to draw more undue attention to himself.

She hadn't liked it, but in the end she agreed for his sake.

"Not a thing, Freak," Jim's canines seemed inhumanly sharp when he smiled. "Just wondering when you'll make it past the Youngling training regimen."

Sherlock grit his teeth and he could feel a sharp flick of darkness burst through his psyche. It was only Molly's warning hand on his shoulder that stopped him from lunging forward.

"Enough, Jim," Molly's voice was cold. "Go bother someone else."

Jim's predatory eyes darted to Molly. In a way, Sherlock found that even worse. After a moment, he offered her an almost mocking bow of deference. The only thing that stopped the mocking was the sickening look of worship in his gaze. "If you so wish it," he all but simpered.

Sherlock found his anger flaring for a completely different reason.

It was almost sick, in Sherlock's mind. The way that Jim seemed to be enamoured with Molly. He understood respect and admiration – Molly was easily one of the most gifted students when it came to the Force, and even the most belligerent of students ( _cough,_ Sherlock, _cough_ ) could recognize her talents.

And yet, Jim took things to an entirely new level. It was as though Molly was the only one in the entire universe, and he worshipped the ground she walked on. It annoyed Sherlock to no end when he could feel the other boy's eyes on his friend, and moreover, it made something ugly knot in Sherlock's stomach.

He fought to ignore it. But it was almost harder to ignore than the darkness.

Sherlock eyed Jim's retreating back, his hackles never lowering.

"I don't like him," he all but growled out.

Despite the fact that Molly seemed to let out a small breath as well with the other child's departure, she still raised an eyebrow at her friend. "You don't like anyone."

Sherlock frowned in petulance. "That's not true."

"Oh yeah?" Molly teased him with an amused smile. "Name one person you like."

He didn't even hesitate.

"You."

For some reason, that made Molly blush. Sherlock wasn't sure why though – it was indisputably true. Whether she liked it or not, Molly was one of the few people that Sherlock Holmes had taken a liking to. He wasn't planning on changing that anytime soon.

Her blush was still curious though. In all the time that he had known her she rarely allowed any hint of crimson be noticed on her cheekbones. At the moment, however, it was staining her ears and dipping beneath the collar of her tunic.

"Yes, well…" Molly seemed to be at a loss of words. "I meant other than that, obviously," she tacked on, stealing a page out of his own book.

Sherlock felt his own ears heating at that.

A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, as he returned his attention to the pages in front of him in an effort to divert the subject. Still, he found himself responding to her previous statement.

"Obviously," he couldn't help echoing. "Obviously."

/

The oatmeal glopped into his bowl with an unappetizing _smack!_

The grimace was unbidden, but that didn't matter to the older woman behind the counter.

"Don't give me that look, young man," Mrs. Hudson trained a stern eye on Sherlock, the only adult on the whole of Yavin IV to have never shown an inkling of fear in Sherlock's presence. "Oatmeal is good for you, and Force knows you need more skin on your bones."

Molly giggled beside him, though it was cut off with her own grimace as she was served in like manner.

"Good morning to you too, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said, still eyeing the mass of his breakfast mistrustfully. "Are we quite sure that this is edible?"

"Oh, hush," the cook dithered, waving the ladle about and sending glops of the questionable looking food everywhere. "Beggars can't be choosers. This here is some of the best oatmeal you'll find in this star system. One day, when you're stuck with nothing other than ration packs, you will be dreaming of my oatmeal and wishing for nothing else."

"Right," Sherlock said as he and Molly turned to find their usual table. "I'm sure I'll keep that in mind."

"You'd think that as future Jedi they'd at least try to feed us something more palatable," Molly bemoaned as they dodged other younglings in their quest for the table at the back of the mess hall. "Mrs. Hudson is lovely, but surely she wouldn't be averse to cooking something other than oats."

"Perhaps it's some kind of test," Sherlock plopped his tray down at their desired table, watching as his breakfast jiggled in a way that shouldn't have been possible. "A way to weed out the weak of stomach?"

"If that's the case they might succeed with me," she scooped a mouthful of the stuff up, before eating it with resignation. "To be honest, I almost wouldn't mind the rations at this point."

"Agreed," Sherlock bit back his gag reflex as he shoveled as much of the stuff down in one go as was physically possible, barely managing to swallow before he reached for his blue milk to wash it down. When he was finally certain the spoonful wouldn't be making a rather rude reappearance, he held up his half-empty glass of milk to Molly, a wry smile on his face. "To passing the food trial."

A laugh bubbled up from her, as she raised her own glass. "May we someday have rations to eat instead."

/

"How many stars do you think there are?"

Sherlock startled at the voice, having presumed Molly to had already fallen asleep. It had been a busy day for the whole Academy, what with the visit of Lady Smallwood having happened and all. Although Sherlock wasn't much of one for politics (there were only so many discussions about food shortages that his ten-year-old mind could take), even Phillip Anderson couldn't have missed the sheer amount of beads and finery the Senator had been decked out in.

He shifted slightly in his bed to look at Molly with greater ease, only to find her attention trapped on his window where the stars winked silently from behind. He didn't dare to move anymore – they had both grown a fair bit since they had started sharing a bed, and although they could still fit comfortably on his single cot, it was certainly a _tight_ sort of comfortable.

Sherlock lifted a shoulder. "Lots I suppose."

Molly's gaze grew unimpressed as she diverted it towards him, an eyebrow raised. "No sithspit, Sherlock. I thought you were the smart one."

The comment caused his lower lip to jut out. "I _am_ the smart one."

Molly's unimpressed expression didn't go away. "I still don't know how you manage to fool everyone else into believing that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn't bother to respond. Everyone else thought he was a genius solely because he could look at them and detail their whole life in under a minute. The wow factor on that alone earned him several names – not all of them kind. If someone got past that initial bluster though…

Well, that didn't matter as Molly was the only one who had ever done so, and was the only one who would _ever_ do so if Sherlock had any say in it.

"Back to the question," Molly interrupted his thoughts. "If you had to guess, how many stars would you say there are?"

"I don't guess," Sherlock shot back.

Molly's glare quickly silenced him.

"But if I had to make an educated remark, I'd say trillions," Sherlock finally muttered a moment later. "Not that it matters though."

A frown marred Molly's face. "What makes you say that? We live in the galaxy and as Force users we are completely intertwined with it. How does that not make it relevant?"

"Because," Sherlock shifted once more, his eyes firmly finding the roof and avoiding Molly's. "So long as you're with me, none of the rest of the galaxy matters."

A beat of silence in the dark.

Sherlock almost feared that he had gone too far.

And then a small hand snaked into his under the covers, and Sherlock found himself able to release a breath that he hadn't even realized that he had been holding.

"I feel the same," Molly's breath was hushed. "You're my best friend, Sherlock."

It was a long while before Sherlock responded.

"You're mine too, Molly."

The response was a squeeze of his hand.

/

"Are you nervous?"

The question caused his eye to twitch.

"No."

" _Liar._ "

He shifted ever so slightly to catch her eye. The cot that they shared was nearly too small for them, ever since Sherlock had begun to grow. He was now nearly three inches taller than Molly, and he suspected that it wouldn't be long until he stretched another half dozen. The bed that was designed for a single child strained under the weight of the two thirteen-year-olds.

In the dim light of the early morning, Sherlock could barely make out the freckles that dusted the bridge of Molly's nose. "What makes you say that?"

Molly raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Your breathing patterns didn't change all night which meant you didn't sleep. And you only ever don't sleep when you're thinking about something, and you only ever waste brain power thinking about things when you are unsure of them."

Sherlock's lips thinned at her explanation, but he could hardly deny it. Instead he shot back with: "Well clearly _you_ didn't sleep either."

Molly was unflappable. "Yes, but I never denied being nervous."

Sherlock let out a huff of exasperation, even as the corners of his lips threatened to twitch into a smile. She clearly spent too much time with him, and yet he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

It was sort of endearing, in an odd sort of way.

"We probably should've slept," Molly mused. "I don't know how much time aboard the shuttle we'll have for shut-eye, and during the Gathering process I doubt we'd be able to sleep even if we had the time."

In the dim light of the early morning, Sherlock couldn't argue with that one. Instead his eyes shifted to the slowly brightening dawn coming through his window. The sun wasn't up yet, but soon enough the inhabitants of Yavin IV would be.

"You should probably go," he said at last, voice finally beginning to shake the last vestiges of the weird sleep-like realm in which he had been inhabiting.

"Yeah," Molly agreed, though she made no movement to get up.

There was a moment of silence. Sherlock finally broke it with the question that had been nagging him all evening.

"Molly… what if I don't find a crystal?"

He felt more so than saw Molly intake a breath. And then the next thing he knew her hand was intertwining with his, and squeezing his fingers so tightly it almost hurt.

"You _will_ find a crystal Sherlock," the fervour in her tone and the promise in her eyes nearly caught him off guard. "You _will._ Lestrade wouldn't have assigned you to this Gathering if he didn't think you were ready to start the trials."

"And if I fail?" he found himself droning. "What then?"

Molly set her lips in a determined line.

"Then we leave."

 _That_ jolted Sherlock. "Molly, don't be ridiculous. You can't-"

"I _can_ and I _will,"_ she stated stubbornly. "You're my best friend Sherlock Holmes, and I'm not going to spend the rest of my life without you just because you couldn't find some stupid crystal in a cave. Besides, perhaps I won't find one. Perhaps neither of us will find one. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. The list goes on and on but it's ridiculous to speculate because _you will find that crystal._ Understood?"

Molly finished her semi-rant with a scowl of frustration and a determined twinkle in her eye. Although Sherlock didn't necessarily agree with her assessment of the situation, he prudently decided to keep his musings to himself.

"Understood," he said, his voice being nothing more than a whispered secret between the two of them.

"Good," she nodded her head, before finally bracing herself and sitting up, jolting Sherlock out of his comfortable position. "I'm going to get going. Try to get an hour of sleep before we go. I'll see you at breakfast."

She was gone before he could respond.

Like always, the light followed her from the room, leaving Sherlock alone and uneasy.

/

The wind whipped his robes as he made his way up the ramp, the feel of a dozen sets of eyes following his every move. Lestrade stood at the top, his arms crossed and an unimpressed look marring his worn features.

"You're late, Sherlock," he shouted as the ship began to rise and the ramp behind the teenager slowly raised. "I expected you to take this at least a bit more seriously."

Sherlock shrugged as he made his way to the two spare seats beside Molly – typical, really. A space for him to sit, with an extra seat separating him from whichever unfortunate soul had drew the short end of the stick and had to sit near him.

"Why're you late?" Molly whispered to him as the other younglings eyed the two distrustfully. They were probably wondering what they had done to be stuck in the same Gathering as Sherlock.

Sherlock grunted as he struggled to strap himself in. His shoulders were tense, and he couldn't bring himself to make eye contact with her. "Lost track of time," he lied.

Immediately he could tell that she knew that he was lying, and yet she didn't push the subject for which he was glad. In truth he had lost his concentration during his morning meditation, and had completely dozed off. While it wasn't a deep sleep or anything, it was still just enough for the darkness to tickle at his unsuspecting conscious, and weasel its way into his doubts.

He had woken with a start, sweat dripping from his brow and his stomach in knots. The clay jars on his window sill in which he stored his collection of dried herbs had completely shattered, and the loss of control had left him unsettled and unbalanced – a bad mix for someone about to search for a kyber crystal.

As the ship lurched into hyperspace Sherlock could feel Master Lestrade's eyes linger on his frame. Like Molly, he was a little too perceptive when it came to seeing through Sherlock, and the last thing the teenager wanted was for Lestrade to hold him back from the trials just because of this little setback.

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the hull, attempting to clear his mind. The vibration from the airborne ship sent a soothing lull down Sherlock's spine, and the presence of Molly beside him certainly helped as well.

It was all too soon when the ship jerked out of hyperspace and entered into the Ilum system. There was a tangible vibe in the air as the other students strained in anticipation and nerves.

Sherlock opened his eyes as he felt the ship come to rest on the frozen planet.

"Alright now," Lestrade called. "Just as you've learned. I will accompany you through the first portion of the test though I will not be of assistance. Once we come to the caves you will venture out on your own and hopefully return with your crystal. May the Force be with you."

With that the ramp began to lower and a cold gust of wind rushed over the seating area. Like the others, Sherlock quickly stood up and headed out, only pausing momentarily to wait for Molly to unbuckle. The sooner the trials were done with the better.

The Gathering was composed of eight students and three Masters other than Master Lestrade. Two Masters, Artelle and Bronin, had been brought along solely to oversee transportation. Master Trellis – the bane of Sherlock's existence during his early years at the Academy – was providing Lestrade with support in overseeing the Gathering. Sherlock presumed that the only reason the idiotic Master had volunteered to come was so that he could have a front row seat for Sherlock's epic failure.

Not that Sherlock was going to fail.

Yeah.

The other younglings chosen for the group weren't much better than the Masters. With the exception of Molly, there was Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson – two kids who lead the 'I Hate Sherlock Holmes' Fanclub. Three of the other students – a boy and a set of twin girls – barely registered in Sherlock's memory.

The last student just happened to be Jim Moriarty, of course. Because Force forbid Sherlock ever get any reprieve from the parasitic boy.

His thoughts were interrupted as the wind battered his body and the harsh snow temporarily blinded him. He sensed more so than saw the avalanche blocking the cave entrance.

The first trial.

Through the blizzard Sherlock was vaguely aware of Master Lestrade moving off to the side and leaving them to clear the path into the caves. He immediately fell back on his training, and focused on the Force, feeling its presence in the planet and most noticeably the way it seemed to pool beneath his feet, calling out to his blood.

The others clearly felt it too.

Sherlock planted his stance firmly before emptying his mind. He forgot about the cold nipping at his toes and the wind howling against his cheeks. In a moment it was as though he fell from one reality into another as the blankness in his mind was replaced with an intricate web of _everything._

He could see it all. He could _feel_ it all. Every thread of life. Every touch of death. It taunted him. It _was_ him.

As always, he struggled to find his balance between the life and the death, the light and the dark. The threads were too bright and the emptiness too haunting. A simple misstep and he would drown in the neverness and be lost in the evermore.

If not for Molly's familiar presence in the Force, he would've undoubtedly spiralled into the darkness.

Using the warmth of her presence, he grounded himself in reality and grasped onto the light. Between one breath and another he felt the completeness of the Force flood his veins, and he didn't have to open his eyes to know that the other students felt the same, and that the snow was clearing.

It was almost instinctual when Sherlock knew that the path was clear, and he stepped forward, the others following suit. Lestrade followed like a disembodied shadow.

The inside of the cave was… silent. Sherlock was hyperaware of the crunch of snow underfoot and the way that it seemed to echo in the quiet place.

They walked for a while before the tunnel opened up to a cavern where the world outside seemed like nothing more than a distant memory. On the far side there were eight smaller tunnels branching off into darkness.

The second trial.

A nervous spark of anticipation threaded through Sherlock's veins. Unanimously each student picked a tunnel, and walked to the mouth of it.

"Remember," Lestrade's voice echoed in the stillness. "Balance is the key. In order to advance to the next level of your training you _must_ find balance." Perhaps it was all in Sherlock's mind, but the last bit seemed pointedly directed towards where he stood. "As always," Lestrade said, "May the Force be with you."

And with that they each descended into their respective caves.

/

Like the rest of the caves, it was quiet.

Sherlock's breaths came out in tiny puffs of air, and all was silent save for the sound of his shoes as they clacked silently across the icy surface. Everyone's experience was different. There was ultimately no way to prepare for the test other than to know oneself, and to be ready to meet that which haunted in the night.

Sherlock _knew_ what terrified him. The emptiness. The darkness. The monster. Almost like familiar friends, they had been a constant presence in the horror of his mind, and he was certain that come what may, he would not be leaving the cave that day without facing at least one of his three nightmares.

Which was why he halted in his tracks in shock when he rounded a corner and was met with himself.

Well, a six-year-old version of himself. This… this did not make any sense.

The Other-Him blinked innocently. "Hello," it ventured.

Sherlock tensed, but responded in kind, his voice deeper than the Other-Him, his head tilted slightly in greeting although his eyes scanned the scene before him warily.

"Hello."

And then the punch to the gut came.

"Have you seen Myc?"

It was as though Sherlock's insides had been hollowed out and replaced with cotton. He staggered despite the lack of wind, and his hand reached for the side of the tunnel to support himself. He was breathless as he let out an incredulous: "What?"

But the Other-Him didn't respond.

Rather, it turned and ran in the opposite direction of Sherlock, farther into the darkness.

Sherlock stared after it for a long moment.

The _last_ thing he wanted to do was to delve deeper into the darkness after a freaky mini-him, but at the same time, it was the only way to attain his kyber crystal.

Mind made up, Sherlock steeled himself before hastening after the figment.

When he finally caught up, he wished he hadn't. For the child version of himself was gone, but what it had been replaced with was much worse and entirely unexpected.

Myc was standing there.

But it wasn't Myc at the same time. The figment of his brother held a harsh glint in his eye that Sherlock didn't recall, and his smile was a little too sharp to be kind.

"Brother mine," the voice was cold and full of condescension. "So glad you could finally join us."

Sherlock slowed to a halt a few feet back from the imposter, and although he knew, _he knew,_ that the figment wasn't real, it didn't stop his flesh from crawling and his stomach from twisting itself into knots.

"Myc," Sherlock all but whispered.

The smile grew predatory. "Mycroft's the name they gave me, if you could bother sticking with it the whole way through."

The words were a slap of reality. Sherlock had _always_ called his brother Myc, and the harsh words helped enforce the fact that the figment wasn't real.

But something was wrong.

The trial was supposed to pull on one's greatest fear and force that person to face it in order to come out as a better version of themselves. A version ready to accept, and willing to forgive. A version that could advance onto someday being a Jedi.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure where his fears were coming into play. After all, where was the darkness that had haunted him that very morning? His brother was the farthest thing from his fears – regrets, yes, but fears no.

It was as though the figment could read his mind.

"You still don't know, do you?"

Ah. It wasn't his greatest fear; It was his greatest _weakness._

Curiosity.

"Know what?" the words escaped his mouth almost involuntarily.

Mycroft's smile turned sinister. "After all this time. All that _potential._ And you still ended up as nothing more than a goldfish like all the others."

"Know _what,_ Mycroft?" Sherlock spat the word, and before he knew it the distance between himself and the figment had shortened; disappeared completely. Darkness tinted at the edges of Sherlock's vision, but he found himself uncaring, even as the shift in power tinged the air. His hands bound themselves in Mycroft's robes, as he thrusted his brother's body against the wall, anger defying reason.

It only made the figment smile more.

"Know the obvious, Sherlock," his voice was quiet and his breath tickled Sherlock's ear. "Know that you're the one who killed our family. You're the one who killed _me."_

He was lying.

But Sherlock was too consumed in the darkness to realize it.

The world stilled and Sherlock couldn't find his breath. _It's a lie._ But was it? What proof did Sherlock have? His own actions suggested otherwise – he was volatile, dangerous, _powerful._ For the past few years, he had been exposed relentlessly to the light, but it hadn't eradicated the dark. Not completely.

Yes, he was blinded by the light of day, but he also bathed in a darkness unfathomable to most. He was a monster, a horror, no better than a sithspawn.

 _So how could his lie echo with so much truth?_

"That's because I'm not lying," the voice was different, and a hundred times worse. He didn't want to look to confirm his fears, but he had to. "I would never lie to you," the innocent face of Molly Hooper smiled up at him. "Never, Sherlock," her head turned and her lips ghosted dangerously close to his. "Never…"

 _It wasn't her. It wasn't her. It wasn't her._

But it _felt_ like it was.

And that's what terrified him most. As her eyes slowly closed and she leaned ever closer to him, darkness pulling tantalizingly at his chest, Sherlock made his decision.

He slammed his hands into her body, pushing her back and off of him.

Only his hands went right through her.

And slammed into the cold ice of the wall, one taking the brunt of the impact.

As the darkness cleared from his vision, from his lungs, from his mind, he realized that he was alone with the silence once more. His heart rate was elevated and breathing was heavy, and his emotions were flaring dangerously.

He painfully removed his bloody hand from the broken ice of the tunnel wall.

Only to see a glimmer of clear light.

Breath in his throat, he used his uninjured hand to pull away at the chunks of ice, revealing the smooth edges of a clear kyber crystal.

Sherlock nearly couldn't believe his eyes as he reached forward and pulled it out. As soon as his fingers brushed against it, it changed to a vivid hue of blue.

 _He did it._

He was going to be a Jedi.

/

The ship was silent on the way back.

Three of the students had failed. The boy and one of the twin girls whose names Sherlock hadn't bothered to remember were in near hysterics, their kyber crystals conspicuously absent. Philip Anderson also didn't have his crystal, though he was holding his composure much better than the other two were.

Molly sat beside him, tight-lipped and clutching her bright green crystal. Whatever she had seen in the caves had shook her to her core, and she refused to talk about it. Instead she was pretending (badly) to be tired after the excursion.

Sherlock didn't press the matter. The last thing he wanted was her reciprocating and inquiring into his own trial.

Lestrade seemed to know that something was off with all of them, but thankfully he put it down to the stress from the trial. Sherlock averted his eyes, his hands tightening around his own crystal.

He should've been happy that he had succeeded. He should've been grateful that he hadn't had to deal with the monster from his nightmares. And moreover, he should've been relieved that Molly had been right all along, and that they _would_ both end up being Jedis someday. There were many things that should've given him comfort at that moment.

But he couldn't quite dredge up the energy to focus on all those things.

Rather, he couldn't help but wonder what would've happened had he also leaned forward, instead of pushing the Molly-figment away.

/

It was silent between them.

Despite being crammed on the tiny cot together, Sherlock felt like Molly was a million miles away. He knew that the trial had been stressful, but he hadn't expected her to shut him out as she was currently doing.

Then again, perhaps it went both ways. Sherlock hadn't exactly been forthcoming with his own experiences when she asked.

Still though, Molly _wasn't_ Sherlock. That's why he liked her so much. It was why they got on so well. She was everything that he always failed to be and so much more. She was kind. She was thoughtful. And for some odd reason, she liked _him._

In spite of all that, however, she had clammed up like a shell, and for the first time in the entirety of their friendship, Sherlock was painfully aware that she was purposely keeping something from him.

He nudged her shoulder lightly with his own. He knew she wasn't sleeping yet – her breaths were too deliberately quiet.

"What is it?" his voice had lowered to a baritone over the course of the year, and now it rumbled somewhat ominously in the dark.

He felt her tense for the briefest of moments. Then: "Nothing's wrong. Just tired."

A bold-faced lie. And a bad one at that.

Her back was towards him – another anomaly that Sherlock had never been privy to; Usually they slept shoulder to shoulder or facing one another. The cot was so small that any other direction – such as the one that they were currently in – was vastly uncomfortable.

…Plus, it put Sherlock in the awkward position of not, well… spooning her.

Not that he had any inclination to do that, or anything. Friends didn't do that. _They_ didn't do that. It was just a fact that his mind had noted along the way, despite being completely irrelevant to the situation.

Yeah.

It was still awkward though.

His body was tense, hovering an inch away from her in an attempt to appease her silent wish of privacy, while still struggling to find a modicum of comfort.

"Molly?"

His question was met with forced silence. He could almost see her miniscule effort to appear asleep. After another moment during which no response ensued, Sherlock finally gave into his instincts.

His body succumbing to the exhaustion of the day, he all but melted onto her back, his hand coming to rest on her waist while his forehead thudded into the back of her skull. The question that had secretly been haunting him since their time on Ilum was answered: His Molly was infinitely better than whatever figment that that stupid cave had conjured.

Even if his Molly wasn't leaning forward to kiss him.

 _Where the kriff had that thought come from?_

Doing his best to push his alarm away, Sherlock squashed such a thought into the deep recesses of his memory, deciding instead to focus on the present in order to stop his mind from wandering too far. Molly's hair tickled his nose, and so he solved the problem by nuzzling it even further into her dark golden locks.

"Stop ignoring me." He stated, doing his best to not over think whatever the hell it was that he was doing, and even more so trying to ignore the way that her entire body tensed beneath his touch. He wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing, but he was tired enough of her antics to dismiss such behaviour. " _Molly."_

"What?" The word was mumbled as though thick with sleep, but Sherlock wasn't fooled.

"If you're done fake sleeping now, would you mind telling me what's going on?"

A petulant huff of air. "Nothing's going on, Sherlock. And I _was_ trying to sleep. If you don't recall, neither of us exactly got much shut-eye last night." Her words were said playfully, but there was an undoubted sense of shortness to them that made the hair on the back of Sherlock's neck stand on end.

The silence hung heavy in the air. Something ugly began to gnaw at Sherlock's stomach, and a thought, unbidden, made him stop short.

"Did I do something wrong?"

 _That_ finally provoked a reaction.

Unfortunately, it wasn't as smooth of a reaction as Sherlock had hoped for. Molly went to whip her body around to angrily counter such a stupid claim. However, neither teenager had realized exactly _how_ far Sherlock had managed to nuzzle into her hair, resulting with the sudden movement ending with both of them grabbing at various body parts in pain.

"Ow- Sherlock- _what the heck are you doing?"_ Molly whisper screeched as her hair got stuck in the buttons of Sherlock's shirt. The resulting snare yanked terribly at the roots of her hair, and did nothing to better her mood.

Sherlock was not much better off.

He had let go of her waist in order to bring both hands up to his slightly swelling nose. She had whipped her head around so fast that Sherlock had not had anytime to move his own, and he was now paying the consequences as his nose ached considerably.

"What am I doing?" Sherlock questioned her in disbelief, "You were the one ignoring _me!_ The proper question is what are _you_ doing?"

Molly Hooper had the audacity to look affronted. " _Me?_ I was minding my own business, which is much more than I can say about _you,_ Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock released the pressure on his face. Their noses had somehow gotten within inches of each other, and a small part of Sherlock's mind was wondering when exactly that had happened.

" _I_ am trying to be a decent friend. _You're_ the one ignoring me when there's clearly something wrong!"

" _And there wouldn't be anything wrong if I hadn't had to kill you!"_

Sherlock's mind stopped. Any argument he thought he had disintegrated into ash, leaving him speechless as he stared at his best friend.

His best friend who was currently breaking into muffled sobs as the dam that she had built through the day finally burst.

But Sherlock was too shocked – _too stunned_ – to do anything about it. His whisper was deadly silent. "What?"

Her words were garbled around her silent sobs. "My-my tri-ial. I, I _killed_ you Sherlock. _I killed you."_

His breath was non-existent as his mind started to scramble for an answer. "But, but that doesn't make any sense. Jedi don't kill other Jedi."

Her words were a punch to his gut. "You weren't a Jedi."

For the first time in his life, Sherlock found himself unable to breath in the presence of Molly Hooper. But he was left with no time to consider the consequences of such a shift in their relationship, as she was already trying to get out an explanation.

"I don't know why, Sherlock. But you were there, only it wasn't you. You were dressed in black. Your saber was a terrifying crimson. And the _hate_ in your yellow eyes…" She trailed off as sobs wracked her body anew.

 _That_ broke Sherlock out of his reverie.

"Hate?" he whispered in alarm, even as his body lunged forward and wrapped his best friend in a protecting embrace. "Molly, I could _never_ hate you. You're everything to me."

"I know," it was her turn to bury herself into his chest. "But it still seemed so _real_ …"

Sherlock shifted, his hand coming up and grabbing the bottom of her chin, angling her face towards his. Although her eyes remained downcast at first, they quickly flitted up to meet his when the tips of their noses brushed.

"You listen to me, Molly Hooper. I will _never_ hate you. Even completely entrenched in darkness, even if I hated the world, even if – even if I was a _sith,_ I could never, _ever,_ hate you."

A moment passed between them. Sherlock wanted to add on an expression of just how much he actually loved her in order to reassure her, but something in the air had shifted, and Sherlock somehow knew that if he muttered those three simple words that they wouldn't hold the simplicity that they usually did. They would mean _more._

And Sherlock wasn't sure if he wanted more.

So instead he enfolded her into another embrace and once again murmured, "I will _never_ hate you."

If only he had known that never was an awfully long time.

And that he shouldn't make promises that he would eventually have to break.

/

Time passed. Days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and months turned into years. Although Sherlock still struggled with the darkness, he learned to connect with the light.

He meditated on his crystal and soon enough had built his very first lightsaber. It wasn't a pretty handle like Molly's hand etched one, nor was it sleek like Moriarty's. Rather, his was a chaotic mesh of different metals and textures which, when together, seemed to reflect his eccentricities well.

He was chosen to be Lestrade's padawan. Unsurprising, really, considering their close relationship. Nonetheless, it earned him a few more dirty looks from the other padawans as he was chosen by none other than the legendary Jedi Master himself.

Molly became Master Artelle's padawan. A fitting choice for her personality.

After the incident in the caves on Ilum, Sherlock found his whole perspective of his best friend changing. She was everything to him. His friend. His faith. His confidant. Not even his trust in Master Lestrade could rival his trust in Molly.

It was as though she filled the gap that his brother had left behind.

Only she was also something _more._

At fourteen, however, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure of what _more_ consisted of. He figured that it had _something_ to do with the strange twisting feeling he got deep in the pit of his stomach every time Molly so much as smiled in his direction, but he was hesitant to admit it.

Well, to be honest, he was down-right _terrified_ to admit it.

Which was why he had learned how to do such a good job of ignoring it.

He didn't know how Molly would react. Heck he wasn't even sure how he _wanted_ her to react. After all, he wasn't entirely sure of his feelings himself.

What if it was just constant indigestion?

Now _that_ would be embarrassing.

And so, Sherlock kept all revelations concerning his feelings and his friendship with Molly Hooper completely under wraps. It was for the best anyways – as they got older the Masters were becoming ever more watchful.

After all, relationships and personal attachments were dangerous as a Jedi, as their classes were beginning to emphasis more and more. Sherlock _knew_ that he was watched like a hawk. Despite the fact that he rarely had fits of passion anymore and that he could control his usage of the Force to a fairly impressive extent, he was still an outcast.

He was still a child of the darkness.

And in the eyes of the Jedi a child of darkness was as good as a Sith.

While the other students had taken to mocking and taunting, and the Masters had grown weary of his antics with time, there was still an underlying current of fear in their interactions with him. A silent 'what if' that haunted every encounter.

Even Lestrade, who had sort of filled the role of father for him, couldn't hide the tinge of fear in his eyes every time Sherlock lost control.

But surprisingly, it didn't bother Sherlock as much as he would've thought.

After all, he still had Molly.

/

Energy crackled and sabers clashed.

Cheers went up from the other students onlooking. Predictably, very few of those cheers were for Sherlock.

"You got him now, Molls!" Sally Donovan whooped out excitedly from the throng. "Show the Freak that you're better than him!"

Although the majority of his focus was going into ensuring that Molly's saber steered clear away from his flesh, a small part of Sherlock's mind noted the slightest downturn of her lips as she parried his attack. Even though Sherlock had given up on being offended by the name calling years prior, Molly never seemed to get over hearing others spit upon his name.

As the cheering continued in the summer heat, Sherlock let his mind wander as his body instinctively blocked Molly's attacks. Despite her natural prowess with the Force, Molly didn't stand a chance against Sherlock's physical advantage. Right after his sixteenth birthday he had hit a growth spurt during the spring, and now his lanky body towered nearly a foot over her diminutive stature.

He never failed to bring it to her attention, to her ever-lasting annoyance.

On the bright side, his growth spurt had resulted in Lestrade finally deeming Sherlock ready for an adult-sized cot, meaning that he and Molly were at least a tad more comfortable.

On the downside, he was still unused to the extra six inches, resulting in his overall judgement still being a bit… off.

Which was demonstrated thoroughly as he mis-judged the distance he needed to duck away from one of Molly's wide-arc slashes, resulting in several of his black locks tumbling to the ground from the top of his head.

The cheering became crazier as both Molly and Sherlock froze, their eyes trained on the tufts of hair as they lazily drifted to the stones between them.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as his left hand quickly brushed over the top of his head, feeling the patch of hair that was significantly shorter than the rest, and still warm from being singed off with a lightsaber.

Although Molly looked slightly sorry, she was unmistakeably trying not to giggle at the same time. Her grip faltered on her lightsaber as her focus drifted.

Within moments, Sherlock (minus the top two inches of his hair) was holding his lightsaber in his right hand, with Molly's in his left. He had the light cerulean and viridian blades crossed about three inches from her neck, with he himself standing much closer than was safe in such a position, their bodies nearly flushed save for the lightsabers between them.

The crowd had gone silent in shock at the speed with which Sherlock had disarmed Molly.

"I hope you know that you're going to pay for that," the lowered timber of Sherlock's voice ensured that none but Molly heard.

Breathing slightly heavy, Molly had the audacity to quirk a brow. "I'd like to see you try."

Before Sherlock could respond (or act upon any stupid impulses he was most certainly _not_ feeling), Master Lestrade interrupted the silence of the onlookers.

"Alright, that's a match. Well done you two, Anderson, Moriarty, you're up!"

As the other students shook off their shock and began grumbling about how Sherlock _must've_ cheated, Sherlock deactivated both lightsabers. He smirked as he flipped Molly's in the air and caught it, before offering the handle end to her. "Hooper," his breath was still low, and he found himself wishing that they didn't have an audience.

"Holmes," she smirked back in good fun, before grabbing the proffered handle, and turning on her heel out of the ring. "Next time," she promised over her shoulder.

Sherlock was all but pushed to the other end of the ring as Anderson took his place, but his eyes still followed Molly's figure as she went to find herself a seat, even as the following match began.

Despite being out of ear-shot, he still found himself murmuring in response, "Looking forward to it, Molly Hooper."

/

"I think you've put on weight."

The response was a sharp bounce which did nothing more than dig Sherlock's ribs uncomfortably into the hard earth. Eyes distracted from the tome that he was reading, he attempted to twist his body to tell his best friend off, but the awkward position in which she was sitting on his back prevented him from doing much more than turning his neck to glare over his shoulder.

"I know for a fact that you can successfully keep your body levitated for seventy-three minutes continuous, so I believe that I have the right to know why you're choosing to ram your bony butt into my backside instead," his words were slightly clipped with annoyance.

Molly didn't respond.

Sherlock's annoyance grew.

It wasn't often that Molly drew Sherlock's temper. At seventeen, he usually found himself battling _other_ emotions when it came to his best friend, but rarely did he ever feel like losing his temper with her.

Today was proving to be an exception.

Sherlock snapped the tome shut with more force than was necessary. Molly had always had the bad habit of sprawling everywhere, and generally Sherlock didn't mind – but usually she knew better than to bug him when he was attempting to concentrate on something.

"You have less than three seconds to move before I Force-move you." His neck was starting to cramp from the awkward angle, and he had become painfully aware of the few rocks digging into his stomach.

He had been reading about some Jedi lore and the differences between the different sides of the Force and what constituted as light and dark. While he would never dream of going near the dark side willingly with even a ten-foot pole, it was still useful to know the extent that could be achieved, and more importantly how to _combat_ such extents.

Molly, however, was currently interrupting his research session.

When she still didn't move after his warning, Sherlock finally snapped: "Molly I'm serious. I'm trying to read."

In response he heard a sniffle.

Sherlock reacted before he even knew what he was doing. Using the Force, he lifted Molly's body just enough to allow himself to quickly turn around and sit up, the book left forgotten behind him as he maneuvered Molly onto his lap and into his arms. She was looking out into the woods, her face fixed into a neutrally determined expression.

But it was the tears streaking down her cheeks that gave away her despair.

Sherlock immediately saw red. "Molly, you need to tell me _right now_ what happened and who I have to beat the sithspit out, of or you and I both know that I will do something far more dangerous."

Molly blinked, though her mind remained elsewhere. "It's nothing Sherlock."

"Like _hell_ it's nothing," Sherlock all but growled, his hands tightening around her shoulders. " _What happened?"_

Chocolate eyes met ice blue.

Then:

"What do you do when you find out something utterly horrid, and are helpless to change anything?"

Sherlock blinked twice. Such a question was the last thing that he was expecting out of his obviously distraught friend, and he was unsure of where to go with such a line of enquiry. He started by softening his grip on her shoulders until it became more of a caress than anything.

He lowered his voice out of an urgent tone into one more of caution. "What are you talking about?"

Her eyes skittered away from his once again, their unfocused gaze settling instead on the copse of trees behind him. Her voice dropped to a heavy whisper. "I, I can't tell you."

Something dark twisted sickly in Sherlock's stomach, even as his lungs seized. "What?"

Molly suddenly wrapped her arms around his torso, catching him off-guard as her nose buried itself into the crook of his neck, rubbing gently across his collarbone.

Sherlock's body stiffened, even as his arms naturally came around Molly's own trembling frame. He had to ignore the swirl of _something_ that was spiking in his chest, and filtering throughout the rest of him.

"I can't tell you, S'lock." A sniffle interrupted his name in her mouth. "I can't tell you, because I love you."

And with that, Sherlock lost his breath.

He knew – he _knew_ – that she meant it platonically. They had been telling each other that they loved the other for a long while now, though Sherlock couldn't actually pin-point the date that the easy interchange had begun. It just sort of happened, and now it simply was. It was usual, expected even. Molly Hooper loved Sherlock Holmes, and Sherlock Holmes loved Molly Hooper.

But sometimes, Sherlock Holmes thought that he _loved_ Molly Hooper.

He was beginning to realize that there was a difference between the two phrases.

However, he also recognized the immense danger that came with such a treacherous feeling. Danger that came in two formats: external and internal.

The external danger would come from the Jedi Academy – the rules were strict, and to veer from them was unfathomable. A Jedi _mustn't_ be distracted. Thus, any distraction could not be tolerated – especially those of a romantic nature.

To intend to pursue something with Molly…

Well, then there was the internal danger to contend with.

Internal danger because hell if he would _ever_ risk losing her place in his life _._ She had come to encapsulate his entire meaning of existence, and to fathom a life without her was to enact nothing more than self-flagellation. The thought of no more smiles, no more inside jokes, _no more light in the night…_

It was enough to hold Sherlock back from even the thought of toeing such a precarious line.

And so, although Sherlock thought that he could detect the faintest traces of _something_ lurking in Molly's innocent _I love you,_ he still couldn't bring himself to reiterate the words to her in return. Because even as his ears burned red, as his heart thumped with hope, he didn't have the courage to pursue such a vein of thought.

In the end, he opted to simply hold her tighter, the two of them grasping at the other in tense silence as the minutes turned into hours. So caught up was he in his own thoughts from her declaration, that he failed to notice his lack of insistence upon the cause of her distress.

Thus, Sherlock Holmes never found out why Molly Hooper was crying that day.

And by the time he would, it would be too late.

/

"Ugh, why did you insist on trekking through the woods on the hottest day of the year again?" Molly's incessant whine disturbed the thick silence as she wiped her brow for the umpteenth time in the hour.

Sherlock himself was struggling to regulate his body temperature, and the way that the hair at the nape of his neck was beginning to stick to his skin was truly trying his patience.

"I told you," he replied through gritted teeth as he sliced through a curtain of vines with his lightsaber. "I read in the archives about a supposition of an unidentified crimson flower that supposedly has only been sighted on this planet during periods of intense heat. If it exists, then I _need_ it for my collection."

"Of course, you do," he heard Molly grumble from behind him. "Because system forbid you collect something simple like rocks."

Sherlock threw a confused glance over his shoulder. "Why would I collect rocks? They're an inanimate object, and even _Anderson_ would be able to-"

" _I know why you don't collect rocks,_ " Molly huffed out in annoyance behind him. "It was sarcasm."

Sherlock hmphed. "Well, you didn't _have_ to come if you didn't want to."

"Please," he caught the sound of Molly accidently stumbling, and he found himself reaching out naturally with the Force to steady her. He didn't even need to look – after all, she was a constant in his Force-eye, almost as though she was an extension of his own being. "Thanks," Molly huffed out grudgingly, "But as I was saying, it was either this, or get stuck with the meditation drills Master Artelle left me for the day. It wasn't exactly a difficult choice."

Sherlock had to agree. He generally tried to find every excuse possible to avoid meditation, but Master Lestrade was adamant about it. Said that it was important for Sherlock to constantly strengthen his bond to the light side of the Force, lest he risk a regression.

It made the young man scowl, but he couldn't exactly argue.

His padawan braid hung just past his rib cage now, a stark contrast to the rest of his curly, three-inch long hair. Molly's was the same length, though the rest of her hair wasn't far behind – today she wore it down with only the upper-most part pulled back into a bun. Sherlock thought that it suited her well.

As grateful as he was for his chance to be Master Lestrade's padawan though, he'd be lying if he said that he begrudged the status that the braid bestowed upon him at times. He was nineteen, and undoubtedly the most powerful Force user at the Academy out of all the students. Plus, he had finally attained what he had always sought: _control._

Sometimes, he couldn't help but feel that Lestrade was holding him back from the final Jedi Knight trials because he was scared. Scared that Sherlock would relapse or drown in the dark side. Scared of what he would become without a leash to tether him.

Most days, Sherlock couldn't help but agree. He still couldn't manage a wink of peaceful rest if Molly wasn't by his side, and he had to focus twice as hard as the other padawans to ensure that he only tapped into the light side of the Force during training.

But that didn't mean that he wasn't frustrated at times.

His foot crunched on something oddly.

Without warning, his musings were cut off as the ground gave way beneath his feet, and his stomach jumped into his throat in surprise. He was vaguely aware of Molly's panicked, " _Sherlock!"_ as she grabbed onto his arm in order to try and ground him, but despite his lean build his body mass was still too much for his petite friend, and she ended up tumbling into the abyss right along with him, both too stunned to try and stop their fall with the Force.

They landed in a tangle of limbs in the dark, with only faint streaks of light making it through the hole that they had fallen through. Sherlock gasped as the air was knocked out of his lungs, and he heard Molly groan.

"Are you okay?" he managed between coughs, the dust from the passageway unsettled due to their eventful entrance.

Molly ignored his question in favour of her own. "Where are we?"

Once he was content that Molly wasn't in any state of injury, Sherlock allowed his eyes to flicker around the hard-packed tunnel. It wasn't too wide in diameter – Sherlock could probably stretch both hands out wide and brush the edges of the tunnel with his fingertips – though the hole from which they fell remained a solid ten feet above their heads. Both ends disappeared into darkness.

"Must be some kind of burrow. A giant mole's, perhaps? Either way, I wouldn't suggest sticking around to find out," he stated with a tone of finality. "Best way out is probably the way in which we came."

At that Molly groaned. It was no secret to Sherlock that one of Molly's least favourite exercises was enhancing her movement with the Force. Self-levitation, awareness of her environment, and even healing to a certain extent she could do. But ask her to jump any higher than gravity would naturally allow her to, and she strained under the effort.

It was one concept that her light-addled mind couldn't seem to grasp; the idea that she wasn't bound by the laws of physics, and could disobey the force of gravity. Other objects she had no problem moving – Sherlock had been on the wrong end of an annoyed Force-push on one too many occasions to dissuade such a notion. And yet, when it came to herself, Molly Hooper acted as though she was unmoveable; though in all fairness, in many ways she was.

"Can't we rest for a bit?" She moaned as she detangled her limbs from his own. "We've been hiking all day."

Sherlock blew his forelock out of his eyes. "Fine. We should be able to tell if anything is heading towards us anyways."

Molly let out another groan, this one in appreciation. They half-hazardly rearranged themselves into an upright position, their shoulders touching as they braced the majority of their weight against the wall to their backs. Molly kept one leg strewn over Sherlock's, but neither teen said anything.

The dust was finally beginning to settle, and in the weak light Sherlock could just make out the shape of their intertwined legs. He caught sight of his saber handle a few yards off, and quietly called it to him before clipping it to his belt. They sat in silence for a moment, both adjusting to the situation.

Sherlock was startled by the familiar weight of Molly's head coming to rest upon his shoulder rather suddenly.

"The next free day we get, we're going swimming," she announced definitively. "No trekking. No training. Just you, me, and the beach, got it?"

"Got it," Sherlock complied, though his mind was racing at a million miles in another direction. Although he knew that she meant her comment platonically, he couldn't help but wonder what would happen if she _didn't._ And that thought quickly drew his mind back to what he had conjured between the two of them the last time he had been in a cave during his initiate trials…

He shook his head to clear it of the images.

Molly, however, noticed.

She turned her head slightly, so that he could feel the ghost of her breath teasing the outer shell of his ear.

"Are you alright?"

No, he was most certainly _not_ alright.He took a deep breath, willing the influx of his emotions – _hormones, let's be honest_ – to settle. He was not going to do anything stupid; he was not going to do anything stupid; he was not going to-

"Sher- _mph!"_

Between one breath and the next Sherlock's body decided to betray him. One moment he was attempting to come up with an intelligible response for his concerned best friend, and the next found him snogging said best friend senseless.

Well, snogging being a relative term.

As Molly's lips went to form the name that had passed through them a million times, Sherlock turned his own head sharply, fumbling to press his lips to hers. He missed initially, catching an awkward combination of her cheek and nose, before re-aligning his mouth to fit more properly over hers.

The first few moments were the most terrifying of his entire life. The thought of his possible failure as a Jedi, the fear of the darkness – of the voice in his head, couldn't even begin to compare with the first few seconds as terror pulsed through Sherlock's very soul, and the desperation that had initially fueled his actions was quickly turning into burning regret.

But then…

 _Then she kissed him back._

It was shy at first, as though unsure of whether she was caught in reality or some fantastical other dimension. But rather quickly her shyness burned away into a hunger that rivalled Sherlock's own, and he found the two of themselves leaving behind inhibitions as they both sought to sate an undefinable need that they hadn't realized existed.

His fingers twined in her hair, as hers grasped desperately at his tunic. The world around them was a long-forgotten thing, and Sherlock was a little more than annoyed when he was forced to separate from her in order to replenish his air supply.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock didn't mind not being able to breath.

They panted in the silence as they broke away from the kiss, foreheads sticky with sweat as they pressed them against each other's, noses rubbing with each greedy inhale. Something dark ached in the pit of Sherlock's stomach, and for the first time in his life he wanted to encourage it more than anything.

It didn't terrify him

 _It excited him._

For the first time in his life, Sherlock felt complete. He felt whole in a way that he hadn't known that he was missing, and the world was perfect. The world was…

The world was shaking.

As though the thought was shared between the two of them, both Molly and Sherlock's eyes snapped open ( _When had he closed them?_ ) and they pulled their hands away from each other in order to place them on the most-definitely vibrating ground.

 _The mole._

Sherlock grimaced. "We need to go _now._ "

Molly's lips were swollen. "Not going to argue," Her voice was still slightly breathy.

Without a word both padawans jumped from the tunnel, leaving a shower of dirt in their wake as they resurfaced from the crumbling ground. Without looking back, Sherlock grabbed Molly's hand and started running back the way they came, wanting to get as far away from the vicinity of the creature as possible in case it had caught onto their scent. Molly seemed to have the same idea, as she brokered no argument.

Neither stopped for breath.

By the time they broke through the treeline back onto Academy grounds, they were all but reeling from the adrenaline rush, caught up in the excitement.

They forgot to pause for breath in the woods.

And thus, they realized too late as Master Lestrade motioned them over once he caught sight of them, that they had lost their chance to discuss the kiss.

/

Sherlock felt sick.

Lestrade was feeling frustrated.

"What's gotten into you?" The older man finally let out a frustrated huff. "It's as though this entire week you've forgotten everything I've taught you."

They were training on a cliffside a little ways off from the Academy, Lestrade having hoped that the change in scenery would get his padawan out of the funk he seemed to have been stuck in for the last week. Unfortunately for both parties, his efforts were doing little to rectify the situation.

Sherlock flicked his lightsaber off with a frustrated huff of his own. "Nothing."

Cue Lestrade's eyebrows of disbelief. The older man had learned to see past Sherlock's outer façade years prior – they wouldn't have worked so well as padawan and Master had he not.

When Sherlock refused to elaborate, the older man turned his own lightsaber off with an air of understanding. "You had a fight with Molly, didn't you?"

Sherlock didn't reply, merely turning his back to his Master and plunking his butt onto the ground in a petulant manner. The _last_ thing he was going to do was talk to Lestrade about the situation.

It had been just over eight days since he and Molly had crossed the uncrossable line in the woods, and Sherlock was an absolute mess. They had barely spoken more than two words to each other, and more often than not Sherlock had to flee from her presence lest the redness of his ears reveal their actions to all.

It was disconcerting.

After they had left the woods, it had just become harder and harder to bring the subject up. Her immediate shyness around him had put him off, and for the first time in his life he had been unsure in regards to Molly Hooper.

Thus, he had left it to her to broach the subject.

Only she didn't.

And now, eight days later, Sherlock was going absolutely insane. For the first time that he could remember, the madness wasn't stemming from the darkness. Rather, it was stemming from the _light._

They still slept together every night. No amount of awkwardness could halt that arrangement. Only, it wasn't the same as the casual closeness that Sherlock had become accustomed to over the course of their friendship.. Rather, it was as though they were hyper-aware of the other person, and they stayed uncomfortably stiff in order to avoid accidently brushing against the other.

Sherlock missed the constant contact from his best friend.

Only, she wasn't _just_ his best friend anymore.

She was now also something that he craved. Something he needed. Something he _wanted._

The thought didn't terrify him as much as it used to.

However, it was that very fact that was causing the most tension between the two. Sherlock wasn't really sure when it had started. Perhaps the day after? Two? Three? All he knew was that one moment he was blushing around her because he was embarrassed of their actions, and the next he was blushing because he wanted _more._

He didn't know how she felt – both of them had shrouded the other from the Force, and though he could still locate her, her essence was muted and the normally vibrant emotions were blurred.

He wasn't about to complain though. He wasn't sure what he'd do if she ever found out about the thoughts racing through his head whenever he thought about _her_ now.

The others had begun to notice around the fourth day. The fact that Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper were no longer conjoined at the hip was a fairly obvious sign that something was askew. That, plus the fact that there had been quite a crowd of students in the courtyard that evening when Molly and Sherlock had walked _right past one another_ without even making eye contact. The rumour mill had started quickly after that.

Apparently, he had finally unleashed his darkness upon her, and she was now trying to do what everyone else had done years ago, which was get as far away as possible.

( _Oh, he certainly wanted to unleash some darkness upon her, but not in the manner that the others had presumed.)_

Others stated that he had cut her off for trying to make friends with other students, resulting in a huge argument and a division of the undividable.

( _That was ridiculous. Why would she even want to make friends with others in the first place?)_

And yet others claimed that Sherlock had finally lost it and was the one pushing her away. That one Sherlock like to scoff at the most. As if he _wanted_ to create any distance between himself and Molly.

Thankfully though, none of them were even close to the truth, which Sherlock had to begrudgingly admit was a small mercy.

His contemplation was broken as he felt Lestrade rest a hand on his shoulder, and then use his frame to help lower himself into a sitting position beside Sherlock. Even sitting, Sherlock was now several inches taller than the man that he had been more of a father than anything else to him.

For a moment they sat in silence, listening to the small sounds of nature. Slowly, Sherlock felt his frustrations and tensions ease out of his body, until he was simply feeling weary.

He _missed_ his best friend, and he wanted her back, even if that meant he had to put aside his newfound desires.

Lestrade's voice broke the silence. "Being a Jedi is hard, Sherlock. For you more than most. Relationships can be difficult, especially when we let them be muddled by emotions-" For a moment Sherlock panicked, thinking that Lestrade had guessed which emotions he was currently struggling with. Lestrade must have noted it, because he gave a reassuring squeeze to the younger man's shoulder. "Don't fret, I know you still struggle with anger. I resigned myself to your strong emotions long ago."

Sherlock didn't know whether to laugh in relief, or stare at the old man gobsmacked. His Master thought that he was _mad_ at Molly? What an absurd idea – she was the last person his anger would ever be fully directed towards.

Then again, anger would get less of a lecture from Lestrade than love.

Sherlock pursed his lips and didn't respond.

"The thing with being a Jedi, Sherlock," the bumbling old man continued, "Is that while you will always feel your emotions, you need to learn to put them aside for the greater good. Anger is dangerous and will lead you down a dark path that I _know_ you've fought to refrain from for years. So don't give into it. Talk to Molly. Sort out your differences. But don't allow your judgement to become clouded by your emotions."

When Sherlock didn't reply, Lestrade gave a soft, expectant sigh, before rising to his feet.

"Consider what I've said, Sherlock. Though in the end I know you'll make the right decision. Come back when you're ready." And with that Lestrade was gone, leaving Sherlock alone with his thoughts.

Perhaps Lestrade should've stayed a while longer, probed deeper into Sherlock's emotions. Had he, perhaps he could've swayed the young man just a little more.

Because ultimately, Sherlock would make a decision.

Unfortunately, it would be the wrong one.

/

"Is that all you got, Holmes?" the reptilian voice made Sherlock's blood run cold, even as a drip of sweat threatened to fall from his brow. He felt a flash of irritation go through him – without Molly by his side, they were almost constant now, and nearly anything would set them off.

Especially confrontations with Moriarty.

Unfortunately, this confrontation was a required training fight, and while most of the students were currently in their own classes, and therefore limiting the spectators, quite a few of the Masters had just so happened to be 'strolling' by and decided to watch. Then there were the other handful of ingrates in his class – Anderson, Donovan, Dimmock, and several others who Sherlock had never bothered to meet properly. And Molly, of course.

She was sitting in the back corner, attempting a pitiful conversation with a Twi'lek girl who was more or less just looking at Molly pityingly.

She really was a sorry sight – neither of them could really sleep anymore, rather laying side by side in tense silence throughout the evenings. If Sherlock wasn't so selfish, he would tell her to just stay in her own room so that she could sleep in comfort.

However, Sherlock was always selfish. Thus explaining the alarmingly dark circles under both of their eyes.

While Sherlock had always been somewhat gaunt and skeletal-ish though, the evidence of their strained friendship was much more clear on Molly. Her cheekbones were more pronounced, and her robes were ever so slightly too large for her frame now. He wanted nothing more than to steal her away and nurse her back to health.

A down slash from Moriarty's light saber drew Sherlock's scattered attention back to the current fight. He quickly blocked before retaliating with a side-arc of his own. His eyes drifted back to Molly.

Jim noticed.

The other young man smirked. "Such a shame, the two of you falling out." Each word was a nail in the other boy's coffin.

"It's none of your business," Sherlock tried to fight away a stab of darkness while at the same time parrying yet another attack from Moriarty. The darkness was undoubtedly stronger since his connection with Molly had become strained during the past two weeks. While the wretched creature from his childhood nightmares had yet to rear its ugly head, he still struggled plenty with the darkness.

Moriarty's quips were not helping.

"You know," he had lowered his voice so that it was only able to slither into Sherlock's hearing. "Perhaps it's for the better. After all, now Molly can finally find out what she's been missing out on."

Sherlock wasn't sure if it was the implication that he was lacking something, or that Molly would prefer Moriarty to himself. Either way, something in the other boy's sentence made Sherlock _snap_.

And he _plunged_ into the darkness.

It was like a tidal wave; Sudden, powerful, and _much_ bigger than one initially thought. In a moment the darkness that Sherlock had floundered in since childhood suddenly turned in his favour, and a power that he had never felt before coursed through his veins. He knew everything. He felt everything. He _was_ everything.

Before Moriarty could even wipe the taunting smirk from his face, Sherlock's lack luster attacks suddenly sharpened with frightening speed. All Sherlock could see was red; Red from his anger at Jim; Red from the blood coursing dangerously through his veins; Red from his passion for Molly.

It was as though he was no longer present in his own body. He didn't see Jim's practice technique turn into panicked defensive strategies. He couldn't hear the gasps of fear go up from around him. He couldn't feel Lestrade's own attempts with the Force to hold him back.

Everything was red.

 _And he was going to kill Moriarty if it was the last thing he ever did._

He just needed to submit fully to the darkness.

Energy cackled. The air grew thick. With an unnaturally powerful slash he threw Jim's blade from his hand, and without hesitation raised his arm for the final blow-

Only to have Molly Hooper run in front of him.

" _Sherlock, stop!_ "

He barely managed to halt his blade in time, the vibrant blue energy humming dangerously close to her ear. She didn't appear fazed though, staring at him steadily despite the tears in her eyes.

"Please, Sherlock," her voice was a mumbled prayer. " _Stop_."

The darkness evaporated as though it was never even there to begin with. Crimson vanished from his vision, leaving Sherlock trembling as his eyes tried to focus on the horrible scene before him.

"M-Molly?"

She gave him a shaky smile. "I-It's alright, Sherlock. You're back now."

But it was too late, for his eyes had already confusedly travelled to where the tip of his lightsaber dangled dangerously close to her ear, and time stopped as he witnessed the realization of his worst nightmares.

Molly didn't notice, still smiling, still babbling lies of comfort. Out of habit her hand came up to rest upon his cheek-

Sherlock shuddered away violently, all but flinging his lightsaber away as his body collapsed in the opposite direction of her touch. His heart was pounding, head racing. His sudden movement caused all – Molly included – to flinch, but he took in none of it and all of it.

All he knew was that he had to get away. He had to protect Molly. Even if it was from himself.

The shouts of Lestrade and Molly clamoured over the whispers of fear, but Sherlock ignored them, shutting them out, shutting the _world_ out.

Scenery blurred and colours died. His body was numb and unaware of any other fact other than _away._

When he finally did collapse due to the haltering of his chest and a misplacement of the foot which he wasn't even aware of until the world was upside down and the sharpness in the back of his head berated him of his folly, he almost wished that his body would numb itself away in entirety, taking him away from the nightmare of his reality.

One moment his eyes were attempting to grasp the spinning hues of greens and blues from where he laid sprawled in the midst of the woods.

And the next thing that he was aware of was Molly Hooper everywhere, cradling his head, blocking his vision. As he still fought for breath, one thought managed to rear itself in the murky muddle of his mind.

"No," it took a moment for his tongue to move correctly and in sync with his lips, "Molly," he struggled against her grasp, "You need to get away."

In stark contrast to his command, she only pressed her forehead to his own as the tears streamed down his face. "You foolish, foolish man," she whispered as her fingers ghosted through his hair. "I promised I would never leave you."

It was like the first rays of sunlight had pierced through his headache as she tugged gently at the Force, moving it in a way that he had never been able to fathom; bonding with the light to not only move energy, but to also replenish it.

As Molly gently Force-healed his injured head, Sherlock's thoughts slowly became clearer as his adrenaline and shock wore off. He realized that they were somewhere in the woods, but that he must've ran far because he didn't recognize any of their surroundings.

And there were tears on his cheeks. Tears of regret, and pain, and fear.

"I'm sorry, Molly," he grasped onto her like a drowning man grasping a lifeline. "I'm sorry."

She hushed him with a gentle kiss on the forehead. "There is nothing to apologize for," she insisted. "You didn't hurt me."

" _But I almost did."_ Sherlock jolted himself up to a sitting position, though he nearly instantly regretted it. "And _that's_ all that matters."

"No, it's _not,"_ Molly all but tackled him with a growl, pushing herself back onto his lap and grabbing his face once more, though this time with the force necessary to illustrate her frustration with him. "What matters is that you _stopped."_

With that word, it was as though time itself stood still in the woods. Fierce chocolate eyes latched onto frenzied blue ones, and within the span of a single breath, the rest of the world faded away.

Somehow, Sherlock's lips found their way onto Molly's once again.

This time, however, she dominated the kiss, pouring every inch of her anger, her passion, her _soul_ into it. She refused to allow him to believe for even a second that she wasn't completely and totally his.

They both broke away in order to gasp for air, though Molly's grip on the sides of Sherlock's head didn't loosen in the slightest. At some point during their interlude, Sherlock's hands had planted themselves firmly on her hips, and the space between their bodies had become none existent.

"You listen here, Sherlock Holmes," Molly's voice was slightly breathless, though just as determined sounding as before. "I am never going anywhere because I _know_ that you would never hurt me. We all do terrifying things at times. What's important though is that we rely on those we love to help us get through it rather than pushing them away."

Her words resonated within his chest, and for the first time in weeks he felt a flood of light permeate his very being.

"I love you," he found himself admitting. "And not in the way that a Jedi is supposed to love."

She let out a small hiccup-laugh. "Sherlock, I've loved you that way for longer than I can remember."

At her confession Sherlock found himself breaking into his own fit of giggles, the last of the tension that was in his shoulders draining away. For a blissed moment they simply enjoyed the feeling of once again being in each other's company, and this time knowing that there was _more._

It was Molly's question that brought an air of seriousness back around.

"Sherlock, where do we go from here?"

The question gave him pause, but only momentarily. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "But I do know that wherever it is we will do it together. Our friendship is the most important thing to me. But more than anything I _do_ want to explore whatever this is between us. I'm never giving you up, Molly."

At his words, her eyes filled with tears as a smile stretched across her face. "I'm never leaving you either, Sherlock. Even if that means… even if that means giving up being a Jedi."

The thought made Sherlock frown. "What if we didn't have to give up being a Jedi?"

Molly's frown mirrored his. "How? Master Lestrade has been very clear about the matter for as long as I can remember. He says…" here she hesitated, "He says that it will lead to the dark side."

That made Sherlock's lips twist. "I don't see how. If we've proved anything, it's that I'm more prone to the dark side when I'm without your presence. Molly, when we kissed just now, I felt for the first time in my life as though I was completely _good._ That I could actually fully renounce the darkness and be the Jedi you think I could be."

"You _are_ good," Molly insisted. "But… I do understand."

Sherlock bit his lip. "So… what if we simply _didn't_ tell anyone."

The thought made Molly's eyebrows shoot up. "Like, keep it a secret?"

A nonchalant shrug from Sherlock. "We've kept a ton of other things a secret. I can't see how this would be any more difficult. We could continue with our training, become fully fledged Jedi, and still be with each other. Besides, we only have a couple more years at the most here at the Academy, before we achieve knighthood and receive our assignments. Once that happens, we'll be out of the watchful eye of the Masters anyways."

He could see the wheels turning in her mind as she mulled the idea over. It was risky, they were both aware of that. If anyone ever found out about the extent of their relationship… well, being kicked out of the Academy would be the best possible scenario. That said though, the likelihood of being caught out was slim – the other students let them be, and the Masters were all too content to leave Sherlock to Lestrade.

Plus, they had been hiding the fact that Molly snuck into his quarters every night after curfew for the past twelve years. Surely hiding a relationship couldn't be any harder.

With his own mind made up, Sherlock couldn't help the grin that spread across his face when Molly nodded her agreement.

"Okay." Her own smile flickered onto her face, as her hand intertwined with his. "Okay."

/

Something had changed between them in the Force.

It had already been several months since they had started their illicit dalliance when Sherlock initially noticed it. The moment of enlightenment had actually come during an exercise with Lestrade. It was confusing, but not exactly something he could ask his Master about.

"We're going to work on finessing your finite use of the Force, Sherlock," The older man had said one day. "I want you to spend the day turned inward – walk the Force. Examine where your strengths lie. See how many signatures you can recognize. I have several tasks to take care of this morning, but will check back in on you at lunch, alright?"

With that Sherlock was literally left to his thoughts, doing his best to suppress his boredom. He spent more time Force-walking than Lestrade knew – it was really all he did in the early mornings after Molly would leave him.

Obediently (but still somewhat discontentedly), Sherlock dropped down into his familiar concentration pose, before delving into the Force. Over the years what had initially been impossible had come to be like breathing. Between one heartbeat and the next Sherlock fell into the vast netherworld of constant energy…

…Where everything was just as he saw it that morning.

With a sigh of frustration, Sherlock began sifting through familiar threads. Lestrade, Anderson, Donovan, Moriarty. He flicked nonchalantly over fellow students and Masters, some with connections weaker than others to the Force.

It was pointless.

Holding back his frustration lest he slip from the realm, Sherlock decided to do something different.

He found Molly.

Only, he dug for the Molly that both he and her had done their best to hide. When they had been about twelve, some sort of connection had tethered between them in the Force. At the time they had been worried that if others found out about it, they'd learn about their secret evening rendezvous, so they had delved into the Jedi texts and taught themselves how to completely cloak something from other Force users. Ever since, the signature that Molly and Sherlock both emitted on the Force plane appeared normal, and it was only by looking in the right places that someone could tell otherwise.

It had been a while since he had peeked at their connection, so with curious fingers he navigated the energy. But what he saw confused him to no end.

Gone was the simple connection that allowed him to easily locate her no matter where she was. In its place, however, was something much more complex. It was almost as though the connection had grown into some form of a bond that had turned their separate selves into a single entity. When looking at himself and Molly without the cloak, it was near impossible to tell where one began and the other ended.

He had never seen such a thing before.

His own Force signature still was threaded with inevitable swirls of darkness, but with the bond it was as though that was null and void. For now it appeared that they weren't just connected to the light.

Rather, together they _radiated_ light.

It was a perplexing conundrum, and one which Sherlock found himself wishing he could talk with his Master about. Alas, as that wasn't an option, Sherlock found himself merely re-hiding his discovery and continuing about his usual tasks.

When Lestrade later asked what he had learned, he gave the response he always gave: "There's still darkness."

Lestrade merely gave his padawan a sad smile. "Truth be told, I believe you'll always have darkness. But that doesn't mean you can't connect with the light. You're a great padawan, Sherlock. And that's because you're a good person. Just never forget that and you won't go astray."

Sherlock had merely nodded, his mind still racing a mile a minute from his discovery.

"A good person," he murmured. "I can be a good person."

/

Sherlock felt a spike of fear and absolute panic shoot through him.

The feeling was so sudden that he accidently dropped the book that he had been reading, resulting in a loud clatter which earned him a glare from the Master looking over the library.

He couldn't care less though.

For his chest was aching in phantom fear, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't seem to catch a breath in his lungs.

Something was wrong with Molly.

Without waiting for the inevitable scolding for dropping the tome, Sherlock dashed upright and out the door. Ignoring the startled looks (and unimpressed glares) from those around him, his legs rushed him to Molly's quarters where he simply knew she was.

Completely ignoring protocol, he Force-opened her door, uncaring that he was breaking the rules if it meant that Molly was in danger. Lightsaber flying to his hand, he burst into her quarters, electric blue light reflecting the crazed panic in his eyes.

"What's wrong?" his baritone bellowed.

There was no enemy in sight, no danger at hand. Rather, he was faced with none other than Molly Hooper standing on a stool and pressed against the wall, looking like she desired nothing more than for her body to sink into the stone.

On the floor in front of her, she was looking in absolute horror at a pebble-sized spider.

It took a moment for Sherlock's mind to realize that his best friend wasn't in mortal danger. When he did, and the panic suddenly disappeared from his system, he was less than impressed.

"Really, Molly?" he snapped his lightsaber off with an annoyed flick. "I thought you were in danger!"

Molly finally pried her terrified gaze away from the creature on her floor. When her eyes landed on Sherlock, they hardened slightly in a defensive glare. "Shut-up, Sherlock, and just get it out of here already!"

He rolled his eyes, but he was already moving the spider out of the window and latching it firmly behind the creature. He returned his unimpressed gaze to Molly.

"Try remembering to shut your window next time. Besides, how can you be nearly ready for your trials and yet be so terrified of such a small creature?" he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow. "I thought you Mastered your fear of spiders years ago."

Molly upturned her nose in offense and crossed her arms. As she was still standing on the stool her eyes were almost level with Sherlock's own.

"Oh hush, you. I'm generally fine with them, when I'm _expecting_ them. That one came out of nowhere and startled me. Besides, even in my shock it wasn't like I broadcasted my panic across the Force. I still know how to internalize, thank you very much."

Sherlock's brow crinkled. "What are you talking about? I _felt_ you. That's how I knew you were panicking."

It was time for Molly's brows to scrunch in confusion. "That's not possible. At most I broadcasted a mild shock. Everything else was internalized."

"You must be mistaken. I-" Sherlock cut himself off as his eyes widened in realization. "Oh."

" _Oh_?" Molly was still looking at him in confusion. "What do you mean, oh? What's going on Sherlock?"

The man in question blinked a couple times in order to bring his wandering mind back to the present. "Yesterday Lestrade had me walk the Force plane. Out of curiosity I peeled away our cloaking to examine our connection. Only, it's _not_ just a connection anymore. It was as if… as if we're bonded."

Molly blinked. "Bonded?"

Sherlock nodded, his mind once again racing. "It's what I was reading up on before you had your little panic attack. Apparently – though it's fairly rare – it's possible for two entities to Force-bond if they're especially compatible. They're called a dyad. They basically begin to share the same Force signature, and have a deeper understanding of each other because of it. There's not much in the way of details documented as it's incredibly rare and only occurs once every few generations, but from what I've gathered it appears that this is what has happened to us."

"So…" Molly trailed off as she tried to wrap her head around the idea. "You not only pick up what I broadcast then, but you also can literally feel what I'm feeling."

"It would appear so," Sherlock agreed. "We likely will also have no problem communicating with each other no matter where we are, I'd suspect."

"Huh." Molly frowned slightly. "I suppose that'll be useful."

Sherlock nodded, finally stepping away from her once he realized that he had left her door ajar and that anyone could walk by at any moment. "Yes, it will be. Anyways, I need to return to my studies lest someone notify Lestrade. Try not to be frightened by any more spiders."

He had to dodge the pillow that flew at his head as he quickly stepped out of her room with a smile.

/

"Do you ever feel the darkness anymore, Sherlock?"

The question startled him out of his drowsy musings. It was well past midnight, though Sherlock hadn't been able to sleep. He suspected it had something to do with an herbal experiment that he had conducted earlier in the day which had gone a little awry. The flower he had been crushing was known for its ability to fight off sleep for hours, and Sherlock had unfortunately taken an accidental snort of the pollen.

He could already tell that he'd deeply regret it in the morning.

Molly, on the other hand, had had no issue falling asleep, cuddling into his side and tangling their bodies in the sheets. Sherlock hadn't minded, using the rare opportunity to card his fingers through her hair and enjoy the feeling of her breath against his collarbone. He hadn't noticed when she had roused though.

Her question had him blinking a tad more awake. "No, actually. I haven't felt the darkness since that day with Moriarty."

She hummed against his skin, sending sparks throughout his body. "That's good. And the creature?"

At that Sherlock became concerned. "I haven't actually thought of it since my padawan initiate trials. Why? What's with the sudden concern?"

He thought he felt something reverberate in Molly's chest, but it was so fleeting that he was unable to pin down the emotion. "No reason specifically. Just curious if our Force bond somehow protected you from the darkness or something."

That was certainly a thought. It had been nearly a year since Sherlock had discovered their bond, and while they had certainly discovered many useful things, he was still hesitant to say that they knew _exactly_ what it was and what it allowed them to do.

"I'm not sure," he finally admitted. "But as long as I have you with me, I suppose it doesn't really matter."

He felt her lips smile against his skin. "And you're never getting rid of me, Sherlock Holmes."

"Excellent," He smiled himself, before tenderly maneuvering his head so as to press his lips against her hairline. "Because I never plan to let you go."

/

"…You must be prepared mentally, as well as physically…"

Sherlock fought off a groan as Master Tyrrell dallied on about what the padawans could expect from their final trials into Jedi Knighthood. While he understood the importance of the lecture – his group was to go through the trials in a week's time after all – he still couldn't avoid the sheer fact that he was _bored._

He had been listening to the Masters drill on about the importance of the trials for years. Honestly, he couldn't see why they felt like they had to keep harping on the matter. Either the students got it or they didn't, and at this point of the game it was pretty obvious if they were going to pass their trials or not.

 _You could at least pretend like you're interested and not about to fall asleep._

The voice nearly jolted him out of his chair. At the startled clatter, the Master shot a glare over to him, but Sherlock feigned dropping his book to cover up his actions with only years of practice masking his surprise.

 _Well, that wasn't quite what I had in mind._

It took all of Sherlock's willpower to refrain from sending Molly a murder glare from over his shoulder. He could still feel the burn of curious eyes on him, so it was only once the lingering attention dispersed that Sherlock immediately focused his thoughts inwards.

 _Not funny, Molly._

His chest rumbled with the echoes of her laughter.

 _On the contrary,_ he could feel her mirth as though it was his own, _T_ _hat was_ very _funny._

 _I hate you._

 _No, you don't – you_ love _me._

Sherlock couldn't help the twitch of his lips at that, the warmth in his chest too much to fully conceal physically.

 _That I do,_ He knew she'd be able to sense his smile, even though she was seated behind him. _That I do._

/

There were fingerprints on the threads hiding their Force-bond.

Sherlock frowned. That was odd. He never left fingerprints when he brushed against their Force essences – he was much too paranoid about Master Lestrade discovering it to be that careless. Nonetheless however, there was definitely something infinitely different.

Perhaps Molly had been in a rush, he reasoned, still vaguely uneasy about the concept but seeing no other explanation. Yes, that had to be it.

The feeling of familiar fingers carding through his hair on the physical plane snapped him from his musings and concentration.

Without a glance back, he mentally returned himself to the stone on which he was sitting and the wonderful woman whom he loved, fingerprints and concerns forgotten.

In the end, such a lapse of judgement on Sherlock's normally perceptive part would be their undoing.

But at the moment it didn't matter.

For in a universe in which things are not meant to be, Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper could enjoy a small bit of happiness, even if, unbeknownst to them, it would be their last for years to come.

/

Sherlock didn't even try to hide the smile that stretched onto his face as his eyes pried themselves open. The stone that he had been meditating on for the past hour was quickly losing its heat in the dying sunlight, but the breeze was still warm enough to be more than comfortable. It rustled the grass around him, and bent the boughs of the ancient trees that surrounded the small glade.

"I figured I'd find you out here," Molly's hand never parted from his hair as she made herself comfortable beside him, nudging him over slightly in the process.

"Did you?" He let his contentment slip into his tone as he greeted her with a kiss to her cheek. He naturally angled his body so that hers could slide even closer. These were the moments he loved the most – the stolen ones away from the prying and judging eyes of others. The moments when they weren't almost-Jedi and nothing more than friends.

The moments when he was just Sherlock, and could openly love his Molly.

She responded to his simple affections by nuzzling herself into his arms which had at some point wrapped around her petite frame. Hidden in the woods, it was almost as though the rest of the world no longer existed.

"Are you ready for tomorrow?" her voice was gentle, matching the quietness of the glade around them.

He hummed his confirmation into her hair. "As ready as I'll ever be."

"To think," he could feel her buzz of excitement. "After tomorrow we will be actual Jedi Knights. No more Academy. No more boring meditation drills."

Sherlock quirked a brow at that. "I'm fairly certain that boring meditation drills will always come with the territory of being a Jedi."

"Still," She huffed, nudging his side with good-natured annoyance. "You know what I mean. And most importantly, there'll be no more _people."_

Although nothing was official, Master Lestrade had implied to Sherlock that one of the assignments that would be given out to the graduates of tomorrow's trials was a partnership recruiting assignment near the Outer Rim, and that Sherlock and Molly were the prime candidates.

Life was finally aligning perfectly.

Molly was still rambling in contented bliss. "…And although we'll have to return occasionally to deliver the new recruits of course, we'll still be largely independent-"

Sherlock cut her off by placing his lips on hers in a way that was so familiar now that he couldn't imagine how he had ever lived without it before. Molly responded in kind, both of them so absorbed in the promises of happiness around the corner that the world all but faded from around them.

Which was why they both startled with shock when a voice interrupted them.

"Oh dear. It appears the worst has come to past."

Both Sherlock and Molly stopped cold at the insidiously familiar voice. It was as though frozen water had splashed down Sherlock's spine and invaded his lungs, making it impossible to move. Molly's paralyzing fear mimicked his own.

"Clearly your padawans have been keeping secrets from you."

At the phrase, Sherlock finally wrenched his body from its panic-induced paralysis, his eyes hardening as they locked onto the malicious ones of Jim Moriarty. The other boy had a sick, demented look in his gaze as he smiled upon his prey like a cat who got the cream. Hatred sparked in Sherlock's chest.

Hatred, which quickly turned into an oily pit in his stomach as his eyes slid past the hated-boy to land on the two other figures still lingering in shock in the shadows.

The betrayal in Master Lestrade's eyes made something nasty knot in Sherlock's stomach, and he knew that Molly was feeling the same under Master Artelle's judgemental look. It was as though the universe had paused momentarily, and Sherlock wilted under the knowledge that the man who had become like a father to him now knew the truth. Knew how Sherlock had lied and deceived.

"Lestrade," Sherlock tried weakly, unsure of what to say but knowing that something had to be said.

His whisper broke the paralysis of the moment, as the other three finally came completely into the clearing as though needing to be closer in order to confirm for themselves the horrid truth of what they were witnessing.

"What have you done?" the shout was more of a whisper as Lestrade's eyes darted frantically between the two of them.

"Lestrade, we can explain," Sherlock tried once more to find the words, but was cut off as he felt a will-that-was-not-his Force-wrench him and Molly apart. Sherlock felt a flare of _something_ at the action, but his eyes were still locked on Lestrade's. "I wanted to tell you."

"Tell me?" Lestrade's voice was incredulous and his eyes were wide. "Tell me what, Sherlock?" His voice hardened into something dangerous, something terrifying. "Tell me that you and Molly have decided to surrender to the dark side?"

The accusation was worse than a physical blow. But Sherlock would stand strong even if it meant that he would lose everything else that mattered. "It's not the dark side, Lestrade. It's the light! I'm only strong with the light because of her."

"That's just an illusion, Sherlock. A lie you may tell yourself over and over to hide from the truth," Lestrade was shouting now, angry in a way that Sherlock had never seen before, had never even known the man capable of. It sent fingers of inky fear coursing through Sherlock's veins, and he struggled to hold his own against his Master.

"It's not a lie!" Sherlock bellowed himself, done with the masks and the hidden emotions.

A gleam appeared in Lestrade's eye that Sherlock didn't like one bit, and he hated it even more when Jim once again made his filthy presence known.

"Surely there's a way that we can put all this to right," the boy's slippery voice was in stark contrast to the heated tones that still echoed in the glade. "After all, the trials are tomorrow."

At the word, Lestrade deflated. "The trials," he murmured, eyes haunted and seeing past Sherlock, seeing _through_ Sherlock. " _Kriff_ , the trials."

A new kind of fear slithered into the pit of Sherlock's stomach.

"They surely can't take them now," Master Artelle's voice was dubious. Sherlock felt a pang in his gut, and he knew without looking that Molly had wilted under her Master's words.

An idea flickered behind Lestrade's gaze. A crazy idea that stilled the blood in Sherlock's veins before Lestrade could even voice it.

"They don't have to take them tomorrow."

Sherlock was aware of Artelle's slight shock at the statement, and Molly's painful blossom of hope. He regarded his Master warily. After all, Jim was still smiling in a disarming fashion.

If Sherlock didn't know Lestrade better, he would almost say that a crazed look had entered the older man's eye, as though he was still in the process of convincing himself of his idea even as he shared it with them.

"They don't have to take the trials tomorrow. We can push Sherlock back. Give him more time to prepare properly."

There was a disturbance in the Force, nudging at Sherlock's mind. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "And Molly?"

Lestrade's crazed look immediately focused into something hard. Sherlock flinched as the look was directed to him, already aware that the answer would be unacceptable.

"Well, she'll have to go of course."

The breath sapped from Sherlock's lungs. Molly voiced his query.

"What?"

Lestrade's eyes swivelled to meet her unbelieving ones. "I'm sorry, Molly. I truly am. But Sherlock is the prerogative. He's too much of a variable to be allowed to exist as anything other than a Jedi where he can be honed to the light. No matter what happens, Sherlock must become a Jedi. Even if that means that sacrifices must be made."

Dread slicked its way through Sherlock's veins. "Lestrade, what madness are you talking about?"

It was Master Artelle that answered though, her voice resigned as though she had always expected this day to come. "Lestrade is right. Your connection to the darkness makes you too dangerous to leave unchecked, Sherlock." She turned herself to Molly. "I'm afraid this is the only way. For what it's worth, my dear," she had the audacity to offer a sad smile, "I _am_ sorry."

Sherlock's panic turned into full-blown fear as Master Artelle began to move towards Molly. His instincts kicking in, he went to put himself between the threat and his best friend-

-Only to find his muscles unresponsive, another Force keeping him at bay.

Something from long ago clawed at the edges of Sherlock's mind, finding purchase the more Sherlock allowed his panic to override his logic.

" _Sherlock!"_ Molly screamed, both mentally and physically as she realized that she too was immobile, and at the mercy of those that they had trusted most besides each other.

Master Artelle's voice was haunted as she slowly continued her approach. "I promise you shan't feel any pain, my dear," her soothing words were like acid eating away at Sherlock's heart. "You won't remember this life, but I will endeavour to create a better one for you. A kinder one, perhaps."

" _Leave her alone!_ " Sherlock all but begged, struggling against the Forces that bound his own, but no where near strong enough to take on his Master. "I'll do whatever needs to be done, just leave her alone!"

Lestrade's eyes were sad. "I'm afraid it's too late for that Sherlock. Much, much too late."

The thing clawing at Sherlock's mind suddenly flooded his veins, but Sherlock was in too much of a state to notice the terrifying familiarity of the darkness and the creature who had haunted his childhood.

 _I can help you. I can help her._

Sherlock strained but to no avail. Tears were streaming down his face. Lestrade was right – the darkness had been there all along. Sherlock had merely managed to fool himself into believing that it was gone, that he could be good, that he could be a Jedi.

Artelle was almost upon Molly, her hands reached out towards the girl's temples. Molly was crying and begging her Master to stop but, in the end, she was just as powerless as Sherlock was.

 _You could protect her if you let me in._

" _Stop it!"_ Sherlock yelled, though whether he was yelling at Lestrade and Artelle or the thing in his head he was unsure. His vision was going red and the rest of the world was beginning to fade away, leaving Sherlock aware of nothing more than his absolute _hatred_ of the one he had thought of as a father.

How _dare_ they try to take Molly away from him.

Lestrade's betrayal cut deeper than Sherlock could've ever imagined. The older man had been the first one to take Sherlock in after he had lost his family, the first person to make Sherlock feel _safe_ again. He was the one who had believed that Sherlock was more than the darkness.

But apparently that was all a lie.

For clearly Lestrade never believed in Sherlock. Not truly. Not when it mattered most.

 _But I did._ The voice whispered in the rage of Sherlock's mind. _And I can save her if you just let me._

Pain, panic, and utter fear clouded out any clear thoughts as Sherlock's eyes danced between Lestrade's mournful ones, Artelle's resigned composure, and Moriarty's manic smile before locking for a final time on Molly. His Molly. The one that he had sworn he'd always protect.

 _You still can._

He still could.

And in that moment, an irrevocable decision was made.

He watched Molly scream as Artelle's hands finally made contact with her temples, though not because of what was being done to her, but in horror at what she could tell that he was about to do.

It mattered not though.

For Sherlock had already surrendered to the darkness, clinging to it as his last hope for saving the one he loved most. He felt the creature invade his senses, and power raced through his veins in a manner that he had always feared.

Welcoming the darkness home like an old friend, Sherlock Holmes severed his connection to the light.

And then the world went black.

/ **Six Years Later** /

The moment was a blur.

Sweat dripped onto Sherlock's brow, despite the icy snow that nipped at his toes. His breath came in wretched gasps as his hands tightened over his lightsaber, unwilling to lose even a moment to the one he had deigned his enemy.

His eyes flitted over the figure, though they derived nothing from the way that they hid behind their garb. Sherlock himself ensured that his hood hung low, refusing to reveal even his identity to someone so unworthy.

Someone who had the audacity to stand in the way of his one true purpose.

The earth trembled around them.

Starkiller Base was at its end, and Sherlock was intent to see to it that the hated figure would be at their end too.

Energy crackled. The Force sizzled.

And all Sherlock could see was the broken face that had haunted his dreams and spurred him on his relentless pursuit.

Blades slashed. The Force was tugged this way and that, neither figure admitting defeat, even as the planet crumbled around them.

He would murder the being who dared to stand between him and his love.

The world tilted.

And a scream rang out as the metal mask was sliced through, slitting the tender flesh that lay beneath.

The pain was visceral. That much was evident.

As the remains of the metal monstrosity was ripped away, a splattering of crimson marred the snow on which it fell, and Sherlock found his eyes following the trail with an almost crazed passion.

And then the world literally split in two, as though the very planet itself was trying to separate Sherlock from his enemy, his target, his victim. His hood had been blown back during the chaos of the previous moment, but he couldn't bring himself to care.

For there was no enemy, nor target, nor victim seething back at him from the point across the ravine.

Rather, Molly Hooper stared back at him with horror, clutching at the remains of her mask, as the blood ran down her face.

/

 **To be continued…**


	2. Scavenger of Light

**A/N: Hello! Already, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is that I lied; This chapter turned into a monster as well, and has resulted in me turning this two-shot into a three-shot. The good news is that the final installment should be shorter, and thus should be posted before the New Year.**

 **Although can we please just take a moment to appreciate the fact that I managed to finish this chapter in a month and a half, when the first one took me six? Small victories, fellas, small victories.**

 **Also if you thought that the Force was wonky last chapter, you're gonna need to hang on to your hats, fellas. This chapter is even worse, you have been warned.**

 **Without further ado, here's part two!**

 **-AAG1D**

/

Light seeking light doth light of light beguile:

So, ere you find where light in darkness lies,

Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes.

-William Shakespeare, _Love's Labour Lost_

/

The wind whipped harshly across the planes of the desert, sand scrapping unforgivingly against the weather-worn figure that stood amongst the nothingness. The lean body was wrapped in scraps of beige fabric and nearly blended perfectly in with the environment. It was only the shock of dark hair and the crudely made staff that contrasted the figure with the dunes of Jakku.

It didn't matter though. Sherlock Holmes was always out of place in the desert.

Why he had been abandoned as a child on such a wretched planet was beyond him. The desert had hardened any soft edges he had once had, and the physical demands of survival were more than evident in the leanness of his form and the callouses on his hands.

Sometimes he wondered what he had done in a previous life in order to have been dealt such a cruel fate. A life as a scrapper was barely a life at all, and the endless sand had washed Sherlock's mind of any good memory he might've had as a child.

The only thing he could remember was Molly.

The name was his only constant companion in his solitary, and the image of a face that time seemed unable to erase. The edges were blurred almost as though something had _tried_ to rid him of the memory-

A sharp pain caused Sherlock to grit his teeth and close his eyes against the harshness of the sun, seeking a reprieve to the headache that flared up when he reflected too much on the emptiness of his mind. There was something missing, but he didn't know why.

His only hope seemed to lie in this Molly woman.

For as long as he could remember, his only goal in his meager existence was to get off the back-water planet he had the misfortune of calling home, and search for the woman he was sure held the answers to his questions. The name itself brought a wave of incredible longing to the forefront of Sherlock's mind, and he was certain that he loved-

Another burst of pain. This one caused a grunt to break the stillness of the desert.

Putting his musings aside, Sherlock carefully unclasped his water skin, before allowing himself to enjoy a few refreshing drops of the too-little supply of water. They did little but coat the grittiness of his tongue, but Sherlock knew better than to indulge in any more. Refreshed as he was ever going to be, he resumed his trek across the barren wasteland.

There were too many holes in his memory to truly understand his past. Thus, it only made sense to try and move forward. He had a plan. Get off Jakku. Find this Molly. And then hopefully the rest would come with time.

But for now, to focus on the present.

Besides, the smoking wreck up ahead looked promising.

/

JN-1871 was _not_ having a good day.

On top of breaking some rebel pilot out of prison, commandeering a ship to escape the only hellhole he had ever known, and then having said escape plan go marvellously to hell, he also had somehow managed to crash land on Jakku.

To top it all off, he wasn't used to being in harsh environments without the protection of his Stormtrooper armour, and he could just _feel_ his skin beginning to burn.

Life was just _peachy._

At first, his plan seemed foolproof. Break the pilot out of prison, steal a ship, use said pilot to fly said ship, and finally be free from the hell known as the First Order. It was a stellar plan.

Except for the variables he hadn't factored in.

Variable one: The pilot was a cheeky _tosser._ Mary Morstan, as she introduced herself as, did not take orders and apparently had a sense of sass that outweighed her sense of self-preservation. By the time that they had finally gotten to the ship, JN-1871 was already wishing that he had left her in Kylo Ren's interrogation chamber if only to have saved himself a headache.

Then there was variable two: The First Order wasn't exactly, well… you know, _pleased_ with his escape attempt with their Resistance prisoner. Hence resulting in a red alert being signalled before they had even _reached the bloody ship._

He really, _really_ hated shooting.

 _Especially_ when he was on the active end of the barrel.

By the time that the (ex)Stormtrooper and (ex)prisoner had made it to the TIE fighter all hell had broken loose, and Mary had jabbed several buttons on the control panel before shoving something into JN-1871's hand and shouting "I'll distract them. If I don't make it you need to go to Jakku and get my droid. It has the map that Lady Smallwood needs."

"What- wait! I don't have a bloody clue how to fly this thing! That's why I broke you out in the first place!" JN-1871 protested from where he had been all but shoved into the pilot's seat.

Mary rolled her eyes as she continued punching buttons and yanking on wires. "I've enabled autopilot and set the coordinates for Jakku. I'll keep anyone off your tail." With that the lights for the ship flicked on and the hum jolted JN-1871's bones. The pilot flashed the (ex)Stormtrooper a cheeky smirk. "See you on the other side."

"No- wait!" It was too late – before JN-1871 could so much as move the top of the fighter closed and Mary was running towards the next TIE fighter, JN-1871's gun going off in her hands ( _When did she get that?)_. The (ex)Stormtrooper barely had time to click his seatbelt on before the ship was _whooshing_ out of the corridor, blasters going off behind him.

The rest had been a blur (And admittedly his eyes had been shut for, like, _ninety-five_ percent of it). There were explosions. He was vaguely aware of another TIE fighter following his that seemed to keep the enemy fire at bay, until _something_ went wrong, there was a blast of fire, the looming yellowness of Jakku, and enough tumbling to make JN-1871 puke more than enough for an entire lifetime.

At some point his seat must've ejected, and then, _pain,_ and _death,_ and _oh my goodness he had just wanted a quiet retirement._

He had woken up to a mouthful of sand, an unforgiving sun burn, and the scattered remains of the fighter littered around him.

His mind was in a numb state of shock as he watched the bulk of the wreck begin to disappear beneath the sand.

He was stranded.

 _On Jakku._

JN-1871 wanted to cry. Not only did every single part of his body ache, but he was now also a fugitive of the First Order and was stuck on a planet that was uncomfortably close to the Finalizer.

His eyes travelled down to the odd thing still clutched in his hand.

It was a scarf. Specifically, the Resistance pilot's scarf that she had shoved into his possession before running off. He wasn't sure why she had given it to him – perhaps it was a way to find the droid she had mentioned? His head hurt, and it wasn't just from thinking about his predicament.

Perhaps the droid was his way off the planet. Yes. The pilot had thought he was with the Resistance anyways, and perhaps if he got the droid to this Lady Smallwood they'd offer him amnesty. Besides, the pilot made this map thing sound important, right? So it was almost guaranteed that they'd bargain for it.

New plan in mind, JN-1871 turned his back to the wreckage.

Time to find a droid and a way off this back-water planet.

/

The sand shifted beneath Sherlock's feet as he sifted through the remains of the wreckage. The majority of the haul had been lost to the sands, but he still managed to salvage the leather seat which appeared to have been ejected prior to the landing. He was currently working on separating it from what was left of the metal frame when a whir of beeps startled him

Hands dropping from his project, they grasped his staff from where it was laying on the sand before he whipping around in a defensive position, eyes narrowed as he took in the person who had snuck up on him.

Er… well, the _droid_ that had snuck up on him.

It was a small thing, round on the bottom with a processing unit mounted on top. It was painted a gaudy red, with streaks of white being the only reprieve. Its camera was swivelled up to his face, and the processing unit was tilted as though in question.

It beeped again.

Sherlock released his defensive position as he stared questioningly at the droid. "Where did you come from?"

Although it was more rhetorical than anything, the droid had the decency to respond, beeping its answer at a furious pace. If not for years of dealing with binary, Sherlock would've been lost at the srting of near continuous beeps.

"Slow down," He knelt and placed a hand on the small droid. "What do you mean the First Order's after you?"

At a much calmer rate, the droid beeped its reply.

Sherlock felt his eyebrows disappear into his hairline. "A map to Master Lestrade, huh? You know he's not real, right?" An amused smile tugged at his lips. "He's just a myth that those Resistance idiots use to inspire people."

Offended beeping from the droid.

Sherlock raised his hands in a placating motion. "Alright, alright! Calm down-" His eyes darted to the small bit of writing on the far edge of the processing unit- "RD-B. I'm sure you're right. However, I know neither who your _pilot_ is nor how to get off this planet, so unless you know how to fly a ship-"

He was cut off by more beeping.

Sherlock shot the droid a dark look. "Don't interrupt me. However, if you can do as you say then I know where we can get a ship to get out of here," A plan started forming in his mind's eye and for the first time in a long time Sherlock felt a flare of _hope_ flicker in his chest.

More beeping.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, whatever."

Beeping.

"Yes, I _promise_ to ensure your delivery to this Smallwood lady. But then someone will have to take me wherever I want to go. Is that a deal?"

Silent whirring as the droid processed the proposal, before chirping out an affirmative beep.

Wreckage forgotten, Sherlock readjusted his grip on his staff before turning on his heel and heading back in the direction of the Niima Outpost. He knew _exactly_ which ship they were going to commandeer.

He only made it several feet before pausing and tossing over his shoulder: "Well? Are you coming or not?"

That whirred the droid into action as it quickly trailed after the strange new man who offered a way for it to complete its mission.

"By the way, I'm not calling you RD-B," Sherlock asserted as they made their way across the dunes. He thought for several moments in silence before deciding, "Redbeard. I'm going to call you Redbeard. How's that sound?"

The droid beeped happily in agreement.

/

Sherlock was practically _skipping_ across the sands of Jakku.

If his calculations were correct (And they always were), then he had an actual, plausible chance of getting off Jakku for the first time in _years._ He had quickly learned that his only way off the planet was flying, which was a predicament in itself because Sherlock Holmes had never sat in a pilot's chair in his life.

However, if the droid could fly as it claimed… well, that only left the job of stealing one of the ships that collected dust back at the Niima Outpost. As none of the scavengers could fly, they weren't exactly guarded. Thus, Sherlock was fairly confident that they could steal a ship to get off-planet.

Of course there was the persnickety problem of the fact that the droid – _Redbeard_ – was adamant about being delivered to some Smallwood woman since it had been separated from its pilot. Sherlock personally just figured that perhaps there was a problem with the thing's processing unit. After all, who actually thought that the Jedi were real anymore? Everyone knew that they were nothing more than Resistance propaganda.

However, if Redbeard was his only hope for getting off Jakku in order to look for Molly, Sherlock would play along in a heartbeat. Besides, he could ditch the droid as soon as they went past a civilized system.

As they walked Redbeard proceeded to inform Sherlock of the fantastical story of how it had apparently been separated from its pilot. According to the droid, it and the pilot had been sent on a reconnaissance mission by the Resistance to collect a map with the whereabouts of legendary Jedi Master Greg Lestrade in order to gain an upper hand over the First Order.

Unfortunately, the Supreme Leader of the First Order was also after the Jedi and had sent his right hand to collect the map – none other than the terrifying Kylo Ren. Although Sherlock didn't believe in the wonky Jedi folklore like some did, even a back-water planet like Jakku was aware of the terrifying Commander of the First Order, and Sherlock had no intentions of ever meeting the man.

There had apparently been a big showdown however, which resulted in Redbeard's pilot being captured by the First Order and the droid barely getting away with the map. Ever since it had been in hiding, evading any lingering Stormtroopers, and searching for its pilot.

A likely story.

Sherlock tried to keep his disbelief and disinterest off his face as they neared the Outpost, but his years of near solitary existence were betraying him and he struggled to keep his features schooled in amicable interest. By the time the familiar shacks came into sight it took all of his will-power not to yank at the dark locks atop his head.

Leading them to a quieter spot behind an outer building, Sherlock gestured to the half-dozen ships scattered in the 'docking area.'

"The YT-1300 is our best bet, as it's the most recent edition to Plutt's collection. If we wait till dark we should be able to sneak on no problem, and then- Redbeard?"

Sherlock started from where he was crouching. The blasted droid had wheeled off in the middle of his explanation and had gone straight into the busiest section of the Outpost.

"Damn it, Redbeard!" Sherlock all but growled as he scrambled to his feet, but he didn't manage to get to the droid before it made a scene.

For some unfathomable reason it had rolled straight up to a short, middle aged man who couldn't have looked more lost if he had been trying to. His strange black clothes that looked more like under-armour than anything else off-set him from the sea of beige, and the pale-yellow scarf that hung around his shoulders _really_ wasn't complimenting the outfit.

And then Redbeard rolled straight up to the poor chap and _zapped_ him.

His shout drew the attention of others, but that didn't dissuade the man from cursing up a storm. He pulled his leg back, looking as though he was about the kick the droid for all its worth.

As much as Sherlock could sympathize (The thing was annoying), he needed that droid to get off the planet, and if it was damaged that would pose a serious threat to Sherlock's plan.

Before he could question his actions, his body decided for him, throwing himself between the man and the droid and using the blunt force of his staff to take the man to the ground. He pinned the heavy end over the man's collar bone, eyes narrowed and all-too aware of the curious eyes burning holes into them.

The droid beeped indignantly.

Not taking his eyes off his victim, Sherlock applied pressure on his staff. "Who are you and why do you have the pilot's scarf?"

"What?" The short man all but exploded from where he was on the ground. "Who are- wait, did you say pilot?"

Sherlock increased his pressure as the droid continued beeping beside him. "It says that that scarf belongs to its pilot, so I'll repeat the question only once: _Who are you?_ "

"Wait!" The man winced under the pressure. "Mary Morstan gave it to me!"

At the name and Redbeard's subsequent beep of confirmation, Sherlock pulled his staff away. "She _gave_ it to you?"

But the man's eyes had already latched onto the droid. "You must be the droid she told me to find! I've gotta get you to Lady Smallwood."

Sherlock's eyes widened and he stepped protectively in front of the droid. "The droid is in my possession and I've already bartered to complete the delivery."

The shorter man sputtered as he got to his feet. It was amazing how much anger managed to fit in his short stature. "You listen here, gitwad-"

" _Over there!"_

Both men froze at the unfamiliar voice, before turning to see that their little interaction had garnered not only the attention of the locals, but also the attention of several Stormtroopers whose eyes were now locked on the droid.

" _Halt!"_

"Change of plans, Redbeard, we're leaving _now."_ Sherlock all but dashed towards the docking area, the droid hot on his heels. Unfortunately, so was the short man.

"I'm coming with," The peculiar fellow all but declared. Sherlock shot a glare over his shoulder.

"No, you're not," Sherlock grunted as he dodged between two other scavengers. The Stormtroopers were now in pursuit, and he didn't have to look to know that they were probably calling in reinforcements. Their window to leave was becoming smaller by the second.

The shorter man grunted, but surprisingly managed to keep pace with Sherlock. "Yes, actually, I am."

The droid let out a trill of beeps as they dashed towards the YT-1300.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. " _Fine,"_ He all but spat. "But you better make yourself useful."

They barely managed to duck into the belly of the ship before blasts ricocheted off the metal exterior. Sherlock was vaguely aware of the shorted man slamming a button as they entered which closed the hatch.

 _Ok, so perhaps not completely useless after all._

As Redbeard whizzed off to his port, Sherlock navigated to the control room, gesturing to the opposite hallway. "Gunroom's down there. I'm presuming you know how to use one."

The man didn't even respond before he had turned on his heel and disappeared into the bowels of the ship. Sliding into the pilot chair, Sherlock grasped the controls as the dashboard lit up and the ship began to rise.

He slipped the headset on just in time for a volley of fire to overwhelm them as the Stormtroopers' backup arrived.

"Anytime Redbeard!" Sherlock shouted as the ship jerked forward and the quarter portion that he had consumed for breakfast threatened to make a reappearance.

Sherlock had no recollections of ever flying. Perhaps that's why he found it so bloody _terrifying._

The ship jolted underneath him as it spun to evade the incoming fire. It was a good thing that Redbeard was piloting, because Sherlock was doing nothing more than using the steering wheel as a support handle.

He closed his eyes, certain that he was going to be sick.

"Anytime you want to rid us of enemy fire would be great!" He shouted at the man across the comms, cursing when his voice faltered slightly.

"I'm working on it!" He heard the tinny voice shout back at him just as the ship tucked into a roll and a muted blast went off behind them. Sherlock barely paid attention to the man's whoop of joy, too busy clamping his eyes shut.

He was _never_ stepping foot again on a space ship after he found Molly. They would settle on a nice, civilized planet away from space ships and blasters and madness because _clearly_ Sherlock Holmes was not cut out for a life of adventure.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but the next thing he knew was that the familiar yellows of the planet that he had spent the majority of his life on had turned into the cold darkness of space. Redbeard gave several confirming beeps to tell him that they had evaded their pursuers and were ready to enter hyperspace.

He jumped them before he could question it.

He had barely managed to pry his fingers from the controls when the heavy footfalls of the other man came towards him.

"That was awesome!" He was laughing, enjoying the madness all too much for Sherlock's tastes.

He settled for a deadpan glare. "Took you long enough."

The other man was clearly in too-high of spirits to be bothered by Sherlock's frosty tone. "I didn't exactly see _you_ shooting any of them down, mate."

Sherlock made a non-committal noise before changing the subject.

"So it appears that we will be delivering the droid together after all," The contempt was missing from his voice, surprisingly enough. "We'll be headed towards-" He waited for Redbeard's beep- "D'Qar. That's where the Smallwood woman is."

"Got it. Right," The other man nodded along. Sherlock's eyes narrowed at his nonchalant behaviour. There was something… off about the stranger who claimed to be on a mission for the Resistance. His eyes darted over the other man's attire once more, before something clicked in Sherlock's mind.

"You're not actually Resistance, are you?"

The other man froze, eyes widening ever so slightly. Then he broke into a nervous laugh. "What are you talking about? Of course I'm Resistance! That's how I got this scarf," He waved the end half-heartedly, as though he himself was realizing how stupid his excuse sounded.

Sherlock leaned back and crossed his arms. "Try again."

For a moment it appeared as though the other man was going to continue insisting on the charade, but at the last possible second he opted for a weary sigh instead.

"Okay, fine. I'm not Resistance. I am – was – a Stormtrooper. But I've… defected, for lack of a better term and now I need to get as far away from the First Order as possible. Which is why I want in on the Resistance. I'm hoping to trade intel for protection and _that-"_ He jabbed his finger in the general vicinity of where Redbeard's port was, "Is my best chance at a new life."

Sherlock leaned forward, steepling his fingers before his nose. "And that, I'm afraid, is where we'll have a problem."

The ex-Stormtrooper immediately stiffened, his eyes narrowly appraising Sherlock. The silence was deafening. Then:

"But you're not Resistance either, are you?"

Sherlock's eyes sparked, his vision never wavering from the other's. "I never claimed I was. Only that I had made a bargain."

The Stormtrooper's fingers twitched towards the atrocious scarf that was dangling over his shoulder. "Well so did I."

Sherlock felt his lips twitch with displeasure. It had been a long time since he had anyone dare to hold their own verbally against him. Since he had been a child Plutt would simply resort to fists and manpower if Sherlock back-mouthed him, and the other scavengers held no wits to go toe-to-toe with Sherlock's verbal prowess.

The ex-Stormtrooper's stubborn insistence was… surprising, and altogether throwing Sherlock for a loop. In all honesty (although he would never be caught dead admitting it), Sherlock was out of practice when it came to verbal sparring and he was unsure of how to get out of the situation he found himself in.

The other man raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

Sherlock fought the urge to petulantly cross his arms and pout. Instead he narrowed his eyes before suddenly spinning around and standing up, startling the other man badly.

"I think," He shouted over his shoulder as he started walking back to where he believed the common area of the ship was. "That we need to find you a change of clothes if you're going to insist upon this partnership."

"What- partnership? And what's wrong with my clothes?" Sherlock heard the ex-Stormtrooper scramble after him.

"Everything really," Sherlock muttered under his breath. "And I'm going to need a name. I can't constantly refer to you as 'ex-Stormtrooper' in my head."

"Name? Oh – right," The other man certainly was easy to confuse despite his stubborn opinions. "It's JN-1871."

Sherlock halted in his determined march to the common area, taking the time to shoot a flabbergasted expression over his shoulder. " _What?_ "

The other man was puffing slightly at his attempts to keep up, but Sherlock suspected that the red that mottled his cheeks had another instigator as well. "Uh, JN-1871. That's the number I was given."

Sherlock probably stared too long, judging by the man's awkward fidgeting. He couldn't bring himself to care though.

"I am not calling you that."

The other man shrugged, before pushing past Sherlock and into the larger room. "Whatever. Doesn't matter to me."

Sherlock whirled in after the man, mind whirring a mile a minute as his eyes analyzed the room, before ascertaining which compartment most likely contained a change of garments. He muttered as he yanked the compartment open, fingers rifling through the textiles and leathers. "Hmn, JN, JN, JN…"

He felt the unsure footsteps of the other man come closer, just as Sherlock found what he was looking for both physically and mentally.

"That's it!" He all but shouted, whizzing around to meet the startled eyes of the other man as he shoved a bundle of clothing into his unsuspecting arms.

"What's it?" The ex-Stormtrooper questioned.

Sherlock offered a grin. "John. I'm going to call you John Watson."

/

JN – er, _John_ – was confused. Granted, that did seem to be his default setting as of late. But what else could you expect? Within the span of the last twenty-four hours his life had gone from textbook Stormtrooper to confused fugitive of the First Order. Not only had he left everything he had ever known behind, but he had been forced to acclimate to a madness that he had hoped to evade after leaving the First Order.

Sherlock Holmes was the cherry on top.

John yanked on the tweed shirt collar he had changed into, unused to the casual clothing. They had dropped into some obscure system a while back, the droid informing Sherlock of some sort of problem with the ship that they were now trying to sort out. Sherlock had immediately yanked the control panels open and started tinkering. John had asked if he could help, but the other man was currently ignoring him, babbling something into a microphone as the droid beeped back through the speakers.

In all honesty, John couldn't get a very good read on the fellow. His clothing was simple, if not practical for Jakku. The beige tunic and trousers looked well-worn, and strips of white fabric wound their way up Sherlock's arms – John could only presume for protection against the burning sun. The odd metal contraption that he used as a staff rested casually against the dashboard.

They hadn't exchanged much information after Sherlock had given him a name. Other than basic introductions and learning his reasons for delivering the droid (Something about searching for a woman and needing transport off Jakku), the other man wasn't exactly forthcoming with information. John had been able to decipher from his appearance and lack of social skills that Sherlock was probably a scrapper – and likely had been one all of his life if his uncertainty in space was anything to go by.

He leaned back in his chair, toying with the end of the pale-yellow scarf draped around his shoulders and wondering not for the first time whatever became of the cheeky pilot who had given both it and his freedom to him.

Had she been captured by the First Order again? Or did she actually manage to escape? John found himself hoping for her sake that it was the latter – Kylo Ren was _not_ someone who took insubordination lightly, and John was certain that the Commander wouldn't hesitate to kill Morstan in retaliation.

On second thought, the Commander likely wouldn't hesitate to kill _him_ either.

John tried to hide his gulp.

Although John could hold his own during a battle, he didn't enjoy senseless killing, which was more or less what the First Order was becoming. Just because he had been born and raised with their goals and training in mind, didn't mean that he had to blindly continue supporting them.

The only problem was that his supposed seamless slip away from them had turned into a full-blown chaotic escape of the highest order. He could only severely hope that they thought him as useless to their cause as he felt.

The last thing he wanted was to become the latest play-thing of Kylo Ren.

John brushed his musings aside as several words of Sherlock's muttering caught his attention.

"…telling you that there's no such thing as a Jedi, Redbeard…"

John jolted forward in disbelief. "Are you kidding me?"

The bellow from the ex-Stormtrooper caused Sherlock to start a bit himself, having forgotten that there was another living person in the space ship with him. He blinked in confusion.

"Kidding what, John?"

The scrapper had the audacity to look confused.

"Of course the Jedi are real."

The sentence had the raven-haired man releasing his confusion in favour of an eye-roll. " _Kriff,_ don't tell me you believe in that bantha fodder too."

"Bantha fodder?" John was beyond confusion – he was gaping at Sherlock in sheer disbelief. "The Jedi are real, Sherlock. Master Lestrade is out there and we need to get to him!"

The man couldn't have looked more disinterested if he tried, fingers dancing aimlessly across his staff. "Let me guess, ' _The Force is real too Sherlock!_ '"

John sputtered at the atrociously inaccurate mimicry, but could only bring himself to protest: "-But it is real!"

At that Sherlock finally jolted to his feet, nearly twitching as he paced back and forth behind the pilot's chair. "And pray tell, Watson, what bout of ineptitude drew you to such a stunningly impossible solution about nothing more than poorly done hocus-pocus? A disinterest in even the most basic forms of science? Hallucinations brought on from a mal-formed amygdala?"

"A mal-formed what? -No, never mind-" John shook his head to clear it from Sherlock's onslaught of insults. "Haven't you heard the stories, Sherlock? Of the wars? I'm telling you, Master Lestrade and the Jedi are real, and he'll help us defeat the First Order!"

The younger man whirled around then, his staff coming with frightening speed up to John's chest. The ex-Stormtrooper barely had a moment to process the threatening position before the agitated man was before him, staring into his very soul with a stillness and somberness that seemed to echo the intensity of time itself.

"They are _nothing_ more than _stories,"_ Sherlock spat the word with distaste, and in that moment John realised the absolute seriousness of the danger which the almost feral man posed. "Those stories did not save me from the bowels of Jakku – my own ingenuity was what kept the starvation at bay, and my skin from peeling off my very bones. Those _stories_ did not protect me from the beatings of the other scavengers, or comfort me as a I screamed at the loneliness of the night. I had to rely on _myself_ to survive from day to day because, newsflash 'Trooper, those stories are _nothing. But. Stories."_

Sherlock all but threw John backwards, staff finally lowering though the spark of darkness in his eyes never disappeared. "Stories won't stop the First Order. So _don't_ act like they will."

With that Sherlock all but tossed himself back into the pilot's chair, staff clunking harmlessly against the armrest as Sherlock abandoned it in favour of using the Binary pad to communicate with Redbeard.

John reeled in the wake of the new information that he was certain the volatile man hadn't meant to let slip. Slowly but surely a picture of Sherlock Holmes was painting itself in John's mind, and it wasn't a pretty scene.

John felt his lips twist. He didn't agree with Sherlock's assessment of the Jedi at all – he had grown up hearing the whispered victories of the Jedi and the famed Greg Lestrade, and he _knew_ that they existed just as much as the angry young man before him existed. But at the same time, he suddenly realized with aching clarity where Sherlock was coming from.

He didn't like it at all.

"Look, Sherlock," He tried to ignore the way that the other man tensed in the seat, "I don't- I mean, I can't say I understand where you're coming from, but I do see your reasoning. But tell me, Sherlock," John didn't dare to move from his spot, but his stare was hard on the back of the other man's head. "If the Force isn't real, or the Jedi, or any of it, how do you explain Kylo Ren? Because I have _seen_ him choke the life out of men from the other side of a room, and I've _felt_ the crackle of his light sword when he uses it. And _that,_ is a hundred percent real."

The air was thick with silence, neither man daring to move first. John was just barely hanging onto his anger – he had watched _friends_ die at the hands of that mad man because of the 'hocus-pocus' Sherlock was so casually dismissing.

His anger only continued to flare as Sherlock didn't seem to even bother responding to John's enquiry. Turning on his heel before he could do something stupid – _like clobbering the only person who could communicate with the damn robot piloting the ship_ – he headed towards the common area, intent on spending a few hours cooling down when-

"-Lightsaber."

John froze, barely three feet away from where he had been, shoulders bristling at the simple word. "What?" He basically barked.

"It's not a light sword," The other man mumbled. "It's a lightsaber."

Now it was John's turn to whirl around with frightening speed, advancing towards the figure still slumped in the chair. "Are you serious, Sherlock? I present you with an actual threat and all you can bother to do is correct my terminology?"

But although John was waiting for a sharp-tongued retort, none came. For John realized that Sherlock was no longer slumping over the Binary pad, but was rather yanking at his black locks, his eyes screwed up as though in excruciating pain.

Any anger or frustration John was feeling was immediately replaced with panic. "Sherlock? What's wrong?"

The ex-Stormtrooper dashed forward, his basic medical training jumping to the forefront of his mind because something was _definitely_ wrong with the scrapper

"There's-" Sherlock seemed to flinch against an invisible force, a sound of pain slipping through his lips before his body relaxed. "It's just a migraine," He finally got out, though he sounded a tad winded and was still rubbing at his temple. "Happens occasionally."

John was now at his side, hand hovering unsure above Sherlock's tense shoulder. When Sherlock finally stopped rubbing his temple, John opted to rest his hand on the back of the chair instead.

"Sherlock," John started slowly, "I'm not a medical droid, but even I know that that's not how migraines work."

Exhausted, Sherlock didn't bother faking a response. "Oh really. I had no idea."

The sarcasm was thick. This was clearly a touchy subject. Biting his lip, the shorter man figured that he'd let the subject drop – for now.

"So," He said after a moment of silence. "Lightsaber?"

Sherlock's dark brows crunch together in confusion. "What?"

John was starting to get lost. "Uh, _lightsaber?_ You were correcting my terminology before your little episode."

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock was eyeing the man strangely. "I've never heard of that word in my life."

Something terrifying slithered up John's spine as he took a step back. "What are you talking about? You said it twice after I called it a light sword."

John saw the edges of panic creep into Sherlock's light-eyed stare of confusion. "Light what? I never said anything. I've never heard of such an absurd word, let alone uttered it."

A new fear was blossoming in John's chest as the sincerity in Sherlock's tone wrapped around his own panic like a vice. "Sherlock-"

John was cut off by a sudden string of beeps blasting over the comms, and Sherlock's own head swivelled up, attention completely diverted as he started shouting commands back to the droid.

"Shields are up? You sure you can't get a read? What if-"

"What is it now?" John jolted, eyeing the currently dismantled control panel with despair. If they were running into trouble then they didn't exactly have a quick escape route available to them.

Sherlock's sharpened gaze never left his hands as he continued his fiddling. "Redbeard says a ship just dropped out of lightspeed and is about to-" He was cut off as the ship suddenly jerked and the lights flickered. "-force board us."

John's eyes widened before he was sprinting down the hallway, Sherlock hot on his heels. He had found a pistol in the common area, and although it was nothing like the sub-machine gun that he had trained with all his life, he still unholstered it and held it steady as he rounded to the ship's port just in time for the mechanized locks to be forced open.

He pointed the gun and was aware of Sherlock taking a defensive stance behind him with his staff as a figure stepped into view.

"Well," Mary Morstan stepped onto their ship, hair askew and with a bloody bacta-patch wrapped around her right shoulder. "Don't you two just look adorable."

/

On the whole, Mary Morstan was a fairly adaptable person. She had to be – as a pilot for the Resistance it might as well have been a job requirement. In all her years of service, she had been in her fair share of sticky situations and had seen more than enough trouble for a lifetime.

There was a reason she was so cocky.

And yet out of everything that she had seen and done, getting captured by the First Order and being personally interrogated by Kylo Ren certainly took the cake – and the wind out of her sails.

That said, if anything was able to raise her spirits it was the sight of a specific YT-1300. Even if it wasn't being manned by its original owner, the ship and its cargo were the best thing that the pilot had seen all week.

"What- _Mary?!"_

Offering a slightly sarcastic salute with her good arm, Mary took that as an invitation to waltz further towards the duo. "Hello boys."

Although the 'Trooper she had escaped with had lowered his pistol (Mary had to hold back a snort – he hadn't been fooling anybody with his whole Resistance impersonation), the tall stranger only tightened his grip on his staff, eyes narrowed.

"Who are you?"

Mary eyed his fighting posture warily. Despite all her bravado she was in no condition for a fight, and the other man knew it. Thankfully, the 'Trooper responded for her.

"It's alright, Sherlock. She's Redbeard's pilot."

Mary's eyebrows hitched at the name. "Did you name my droid while I was gone?"

The other man – Sherlock – finally lowered his weapon, though he managed a somewhat haughty sniff. "I wasn't going to call him a sequence of _letters_."

She rolled her eyes. Mary had a feeling that she would be doing that a lot around these two. "Where is he?"

The 'Trooper took over once again, turning to head back down the hall. Mary stayed close to his heels, overtly aware of how Sherlock's eyes followed her every move – and not in the good sort of way.

"He's up in the droid port piloting the ship. We ran into a snare, hence why we're currently out of motion. Sherlock was fixing the wiring when you showed up."

Mary made a humming noise of acknowledgement in the back of her throat. "I take it that means you haven't had the map delivered to Lady Smallwood yet."

The 'Trooper shrugged awkwardly. "The coordinates are set for D'Qar, we just need to recalibrate the-"

"Nevermind D'Qar," Mary asserted, slipping into the vacant pilot's chair and ignoring Sherlock noise of protest as her fingers began flying over the wires. "We have a new destination. The map can wait; There's some more pressing issues at hand."

It was only the weight of something very solid suddenly upon her collarbone that caused Mary's fingers to freeze their musings. The 'Trooper's sudden protests were lost to her as her senses directed solely at their current danger.

Sherlock stood menacingly beside them, his staff held dangerously against her chest. Any sudden weight, and Mary was certain that he could snap several of her bones without even batting an eye. There was something in his eyes, a kind of… madness that made Mary's flesh crawl. The 'Trooper was still going off the rails.

"…Sithspit Sherlock, _she's on our side!"_

Sherlock didn't pay him any heed, his eyes still trained dangerously on Mary. Finally, his baritone cut off the 'Trooper's ramblings.

"I was told we were going to D'Qar where I would be given transport to go my own way. I am not interested in taking a detour."

Mary raised her hands, and turned slowly so she could face him better, though her own eyes were narrowed. "Well, if we don't get to Sector 7G pronto, there may not be much of a galaxy left for you to fly through."

The staff didn't move.

"What are you talking about?"

"A weapon," Mary was irked at sharing the information with someone with an obviously different agenda from the Resistance, but the weight on her collarbone hadn't left her with many options. "The First Order has designed a weapon that they call Starkiller Base, and it doesn't just take out a single planet, it can take out an _entire system._ If we don't get over there and sabotage it _now,_ we might not get another chance before half of the galaxy's gone."

A moment of stillness as her words sunk in. Then:

"Sherlock if that's true then searching for this Molly person would be pointless. She could be dead before we're even to D'Qar."

Mary's ears perked at the information, but she was more intrigued by how Sherlock responded to it, his eyes hardening in resignation while his mouth twisted in dislike. After a moment's more of silence, the metal was finally removed.

Sherlock didn't look any less defensive.

"Fine. We go to this _Starkiller Base"_ He said the name derisively, and Mary couldn't blame him, "And destroy it before it can inadvertently kill Molly. _And then_ I expect to be transported somewhere and given a ship and the supplies needed for my search as thanks for saving the galaxy."

Sherlock's eyes darted between the other two people dangerously, as though daring them to contest his statement.

Neither did.

Giving a sharp nod of his head, the strange man spun on his heel and disappeared down the corridor. The 'Trooper gave her a half-muttered apology, before dashing after the errant man who had threatened her life just a moment before.

Within a breath Mary Morstan was left alone with the circuit board, still trying to process what was happening. She blinked, before a scowl marred her pretty features.

"So I'll just fix the ship myself then, shall I?" She shouted into the empty space.

Unsurprisingly, nothing shouted back.

/

Something was wrong.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock was entirely out of his depth. Despite the harshness of his life on Jakku, there had at least been routine and predictability. Wake at the brink of dawn. Trudge through the burning sands to a new wreck. Trade his haul for a part of a portion. Crawl back to his miserable AT-AT walker to shiver through another miserable night, body wracked with hunger pains and cold. Awake in the morning just to do it all over again.

His life had been dangerous to a certain extent, but boring. Difficult, but unsurprising.

Up there in space though, floating around some planet he had never even heard of on a broken space ship, with an ex-Stormtrooper and a Resistance pilot was more than enough to throw him for a loop.

Added to the fact that his hopes for finding Molly quickly and seamlessly had risen and been dashed within the afternoon, Sherlock was not feeling well.

The last thing he wanted was to fly smack-dab into the First Order's home territory, _especially_ when it contained a weapon of mass destruction.

Even more so, however, it would probably contain Kylo Ren.

Which brought him back to his most pressing concern.

There was something most definitely wrong. Specifically, there was something wrong with Sherlock's _mind._

Sherlock wasn't an idiot, despite what his less than glamourous childhood on Jakku would have you believe. He was smart, and he could see things and put them together when others couldn't, as though the universe was merely a puzzle that was privy to his eyes alone.

There was one part that never made sense though.

 _Himself._

He was more than well aware of the fact that the sharp bursts of pain he experienced were more than simple migraines, and he also knew that Molly was the key to understanding the _why._ He merely had to find her first.

And hopefully before it was too late.

Because something was undoubtedly beginning to crack in Sherlock's mind, and he couldn't understand it.

All he knew was that it _terrified_ him.

Whereas his memory of Molly's face was once blurred, it now stood out in sharp contrast to the sandy memories he had accumulated on Jakku. It glared out at him as though it was aware of its wrongness in his mind, but strangely enough, it was the only image he could conjure that felt right.

To say Sherlock was confused was an understatement.

Then there was the fact that random things that had no right belonging in Sherlock's mind kept appearing suddenly, before disappearing just as quickly, leaving Sherlock feeling disoriented and with awkwardly blunt gaps in his memory.

He had one from right before the pilot arrived. He remembered arguing with John about the Jedi, before the ex-Stormtrooper brought up Kylo Ren and a… a…

Sherlock let out a grunt of frustration as he rammed his fist into his forehead, trying with all his might to will the memory back. He knew that John had mentioned the word again after there had been pain – that was when Sherlock realized how quickly he was losing it – but even that memory had faded until it was nothing more than a blurred smudge of conversation.

He simply _couldn't_ remember, and every time he tried a flare of pain made itself known like a hot-knife through his skull.

 _He needed to find Molly pronto._

Perhaps that was why he had over-reacted to the presence of the pilot and her declaration of a change in plans.

Theoretically he knew that they were right – if the galaxy was in danger due to the idiocy of the First Order, it only made sense to stop them while they still could. For all he knew, Molly could be in whichever system they decided to target first. It was logical to take out the biggest threat to her existence before Sherlock scoured the galaxy for her.

But just because it was the logical option didn't mean that Sherlock had to like it.

His mind – _his sanity_ – was slipping from him quicker than he would ever dare to admit, and the thought of detouring in even the slightest bit filled him with a fright he hadn't felt since… since…

There was something there that he couldn't remember in his mind, but that his body evidently recalled if the fear that washed over him was anything to go by.

His lips twisted into a snarl as another slice of pain staggered through his head.

/

John found him in what appeared to be a sleeping chamber, staff tossed absentmindedly to the ground as its owner was curled up on the bed, his legs crossed under himself and arms loosely clasped as he stared unseeingly at the metal wall before him.

To say that John was disconcerted would have been the understatement of the century.

In all his years of service, he had seen many terrible things and witnessed many great powers. But as he warily approached the young man sitting limply on the bunk, John Watson knew without a doubt that Sherlock Holmes was definitely a greater danger than all those things combined.

Scarily enough, his name was beside Kylo Ren's on John's mental list. Something had flashed in his eyes when he had pinned Mary to the seat and it was inexplicably something _more_ than Sherlock himself. How John knew that he couldn't fathom; All he knew now was that there was something else going on in Sherlock's head, and by the looks of things the Jakku scrapper was losing.

What that then said about John's own sense of self-preservation as he approached him, was another thing unto itself. But another thing to consider on another day, when mad scavengers, system-destroying weapons, and cheeky pilots weren't making a pest of themselves.

"Sherlock?" He kept his tone low, and paused near the edge of the bed, not wanting to get any closer. "Are you alright?"

He was rewarded with a snort of derision. "You must've lost your eye-sight to the Jakku sun if you think that I am alright."

Insults and sarcasm. The man must've been somewhat back to himself.

John decided to be blunt. "Are you going to lose it again?"

The scrapper finally moved his eyesight from the wall, shooting an unimpressed look at John. "I'll try to give you ample warning next time."

Okay, perhaps John could've gone about that a little better. He winced slightly. "Sorry mate. But you really frightened me for a moment there. I thought you were going to cave Mary's chest in."

Sherlock frowned, his gaze going back to the wall. "Yes. I thought so too."

Well. That wasn't exactly the comforting response John had been hoping for. Sherlock seemed to notice that as well.

"Not good?"

"Bit not good, yeah." Another frown. John bit his lip in contemplation, before finally deciding to take the bull by the horns. "Why is it so important that you find this Molly?"

At the name, Sherlock's unfocused gaze sharpened into something deadly. John felt his blood run cold as Sherlock glared at him, that hint of _something_ there once more. But instead of backing down John held his ground, arms crossed and back straight.

Sherlock caved first.

Diverting his gaze to the wall once more, Sherlock answered in quick, monotonous tones, as though he was reciting facts he had memorized but didn't quite remember why he had done so in the first place.

"She's all I can remember. My parents left me on Jakku when I was a child, and the sand washed their faces from my memory long ago. And yet Molly stayed. I can remember nothing of my life before Jakku, and yet the face of a woman and the name Molly has haunted me every night, and the feeling that I _must_ find her. I, I think I loved her. Love her. It's hard to tell. There's something-" Here Sherlock grimaced, before gesturing to his temple. "There's something wrong up here, and for some reason I just know that she can fix it. I have to find my Molly."

John stared sadly at the broken man before him. Any ounce of defiance, any glimmer of strength had completely sapped from his limp frame, and for the first time since John had met him, Sherlock appeared young.

It wasn't a term that John initially attributed to the scrapper, since his demeanor screamed everything but. His tanned skin was calloused from his livelihood, and his body was lean and wiry. He was constantly coiled like a spring ready to be released, and his sharp wit and even sharper tongue sluiced away any images of innocence that could be associated with him.

And yet, curled brokenly on the corner of the bed, shoulders hunched and awkwardly long limbs tucked under himself, John realized with a startling realization that Sherlock couldn't have been older than his late twenties at most. Compared to John's mid-forties, that was startling young.

Perhaps that was why John found himself placing a comforting hand upon a friend's shoulder, rather than turning in fright from the evident monster before him.

"I'll help you find her then, Sherlock. Once we ensure the safety of the galaxy. I promise you we'll find her."

The man turned confused eyes to him, lips down-turned unsurely. "Why? Why would you help me?"

"Because," John found a new resolve as he silently made an oath to the man before him. "That's what friends are for."

/

" _You do realize that you have to apologize to Mary, right?"_

 _Silence._

" _Sherlock."_

 _A huff of acquiesce. "Fine."_

/

A sputter of the engine followed by a loud whoop as the system booted up broke the stillness of the cockpit. Mary Morstan couldn't help but laugh as RD-B started beeping stats at her over the comms.

"Yeah, yeah," Mary replied, rubbing at a smear of grease on her cheek, but suspecting that she had only made the smudge worse. "Once everything's up let's hit lightspeed. We can't waste any more time what with Starkiller Base being nearly operational and all."

RD-B beeped his confirmation just as two sets of footsteps joined her in the cockpit. Mary turned around warily, rather uncomfortable at the thought of being in the presence of the scavenger once more.

Rather than the crazed madness she was expecting, however, she was met instead with the almost meek hunch of beige clad shoulders.

 _Almost_ meek. His nose was still upturned ever so slightly.

Ah well. It was still better than her first impression of him, of course. She couldn't help but notice the distinct lack of his metal staff, as his fingers tapped idly against his leg instead. Mary decided to take that as a positive sign.

"Hey," She hoped the strain didn't show in her smile. "You two are just in time – the system is booting back up and RD-B will be able to get us to Starkiller in no time."

The 'Trooper smiled back at her. She was starting to become rather fond of his easy smiles and warm eyes. "Well in that case why don't we get your shoulder looked at? And you can inform us about what you know so that we can make a plan of attack."

Mary smiled gratefully in return before pushing herself up out of the pilot's chair, eyes still warily glancing at Sherlock. She followed the 'Trooper's lead to the common area in silence. Once they arrived, she sunk into one of the open chairs as he went off to get the medical supplies. Sherlock sunk petulantly into the chair diametrical to her own.

The silence was suffocating. Then:

"I apologize for my earlier behaviour. It was inappropriate."

She probably shouldn't have scoffed, but she did anyways. "You don't say."

His eyes remained trained on the wall in front of him. "I suffer from a head injury. It makes me unstable at times."

He didn't offer anything more and Mary didn't feel like prying. She was all too familiar with what it was like for something to be off in one's mind – she was still suffering from the aftereffects of Kylo Ren's intrusive joyride through her memories.

But that didn't excuse his behaviour in her opinion. She had been tortured and shot and mentally abused but you didn't see her threatening the lives of strangers when she didn't get her way.

The silence stretched awkwardly as she didn't reply. They were saved by the bustling of the 'Trooper as he returned.

"Alright so I found some more bacta-patches and while I'm not exactly a medical droid I do have basic training," He offered, taking the seat beside Mary and across from Sherlock.

"That's better than what I can do," Mary offered back wryly, gesturing to her shoddy wrap job that the 'Trooper was already in the process of dismantling. "Say, do you have a name?"

The 'Trooper paused momentarily, before continuing to unwrap the bloody cloth. "John. John Watson."

Mary felt her eyebrows hitch in amusement, knowing full well that Stormtroopers were not assigned names, and that therefore this one must've picked his current one up during his time with the scavenger.

"Well, nice to meet you properly, John," She grimaced as he began to re-wrap her shoulder with the fresh patches. He smiled at her again, and that was when Mary noticed the flash of yellow hanging from his shoulders. "And thanks for keeping my scarf safe."

John started as he pinned the bacta-patch into place, cleaning his hands quickly. "Oh yeah, sorry I forgot. Here-"

Mary reached out and stilled his hands before they could unwind the scarf from his shoulders. "You keep it. Besides," She gestured to her shoulder, "With the state I'm in I'd just get blood all over it."

She could've almost sworn that a smattering of red covered his cheeks. "Alright, if you're sure."

She nodded her consent, biting her lip to hold back a grin. In all honesty the scarf went atrociously with his outfit of simple pants, a beige tunic and a worn leather jacket. And yet, with his mused light-coloured hair and smiling blue eyes, the ex-Stormtrooper managed to pull it off.

The moment was ruined by Sherlock clearing his throat. Loudly.

"So…" The dark-haired man dragged out the vowel, "Do you have a plan for this venture or should we all expect ourselves to be spectacularly killed?"

John shot the man a deadpan glare. Mary found her amusement rising. She finally leaned forward, resting the elbow of her good arm on her knee.

"Of course I got a plan," She scoffed in her own haughty way. "And this is how it goes…"

/

 _A gentle laugh._

 _A caress of the cheek._

" _I love you, Sherlock Holmes."_

/

Sherlock jolted from the intrusive thoughts, startling John and Mary who were conversing beside him. He couldn't focus on that at the moment though – he was much too busy trying to calm his racing heart.

He could still feel it – the ghost of someone's touch across his cheekbone. His head ached in a way that threatened to split his skull apart, and yet for the first time in forever the usually fleeting thoughts were bouncing rudely in his mind.

It was disturbing. Almost as though there were another's thoughts in his mind. Only the other thoughts were the ones that he thought were his own.

Not that that made any sense whatsoever.

"Mate? Are you alright?"

John's voice was distorted, as though he was shouting from the other end of a cave and wasn't speaking right beside him. Sherlock blinked twice harshly, hoping to clear the rush of noise filling his ears but to no avail.

His blood was _singing._ He felt like screaming.

There was something, _something_ right there, just out of reach. While the tactile senses of the invasive thoughts remained, the images blurred and twisted, once again leaving Sherlock grasping for that which he did not know.

Only this time it was _closer._ He _knew_ that it was _right there-_

He bolted out of his seat, barely remembering to breath as he did so. He was vaguely aware of John and Mary rushing after him in concern, but he didn't have the time to focus on them.

Something… _other_ propelled Sherlock to a random cabinet, and had him yanking open the drawer with utmost fury and desperation, hands shaking and eyesight blurry as he reached past discarded clothing and parts, searching for-

His fingers curled around a cool metal cylinder.

The world stilled.

"-the bloody hell are you doing?!"

Sherlock ignored John's exasperated yell. He was becoming quite good at doing that. Rather, his eyes lingered on the cylinder in his hand as he pulled it from the hidden confines of the drawer.

John and Mary halted behind him.

"Oh my God," John's voice was breathless. "That's-"

"A lightsaber!" Mary cut him off, excitement filling her voice. _Lightsaber, that was the word that John had claimed that Sherlock had said earlier even though he had never even heard of such a thing before._ "It must be Greg Lestrade's!"

While explaining her plan on how to destroy Starkiller Base, Mary had also given them a cursory overview of the Resistance's situation. Needless to say, it wasn't pretty. Sherlock thought (privately) that their constant fight against the First Order was futile. They had neither the numbers nor the power to go toe-to-toe with them, and were gunning on fairy tales and bedtime stories to lead them to victory.

Apparently, they all presumed that Greg Lestrade could turn the tides of the war, despite the fact that he wasn't real and even if he was, that he had left the Resistance nearly a half a dozen years prior and had never been seen since. According to Mary, he had last been seen in the very same YT-1300 that John and Sherlock had managed to commandeer from Jakku, hence why Mary had so willy-nilly boarded them in the first place.

It was a ridiculous story that made Sherlock roll his eyes. But now, with the… _lightsaber_ in his hand, he felt something falter in his chest, even as his mind threatened to crack in two under the pain.

John was speaking again.

"-doesn't look like Kylo Ren's. And frankly it's not what I expected for the legendary Master Lestrade's."

It was true: The handle was a mish-mash of various metals and textures which didn't really seem to work cohesively together. It was… bizarre, with none of the smoothness nor elegance that one would've presumed the weapon to have.

Sherlock's fist tightened. "That's because it's not his."

How he knew that, he had no clue. But as he turned the handle over in his hands, he somehow knew without a doubt that this lightsaber didn't belong to Master Lestrade.

Before he could try and figure out where such a conviction came from though, a pain such as he had never felt before sliced through his mind and invaded the rest of his body, stealing his breath and obliterating any train of thought that he might've had.

He suddenly thrust the weapon into John's unsuspecting hands, uncaring if the man was prepared, just knowing, _knowing_ that he had to get away from it as soon as possible.

"You keep it," He barely rasped out. "I can't-"

"What- Sherlock!"

John barely had time to shove the weapon into his waistband, before Sherlock's weight all but collapsed towards the smaller man. Both John and Mary let out a cry of concern as they went to brace the scavenger, confused questions spewing forth.

Sherlock couldn't answer though.

For he had already succumbed to the blissed state of unconsciousness.

/

The rustle of branches.

A crunch of something underfoot.

" _Force dammit, Sherlock, now is not the time for a nap!"_

Sherlock let out a groan as he slowly became aware of his surroundings once more. An unfamiliar sensation nipped at his nose, and whatever his head was laying in was absolutely _frigid._

John was by his side in a moment.

" _Kriff_ it's about time," The other man muttered, before Sherlock felt warm hands helping him sit up. Sherlock's body ached in a way that he didn't understand, and the onslaught of the unfamiliar place was causing a panic to well up within him.

He finally managed to crack an eye open once John had gotten him into a sitting position, the glare of the sun off of… something causing him to shut it just as quickly.

"Ut hmpned?" His tongue was like sandpaper, and his lips refused to make the proper shapes, only serving to increase the panic in which Sherlock was quickly beginning to flounder. The last thing he could remember was discussing Mary's plan, and then… darkness. And pain.

There was something wrong with this memory gap though. Unlike the other small ones, this was felt as though it was rough around the edges; as though his mind wasn't fully able to cope with the missing memories. It made Sherlock dizzy to think about, and he screwed up his face as he braced himself against John.

John, who had apparently managed to understand Sherlock's confused babble.

"You blacked out," The other man supplied hastily. "You've been out for a while. We arrived on Starkiller Base and Mary went in over an hour ago to set the charges."

 _That_ yanked Sherlock out of his painful musings, and his tongue finally managed to articulate his thoughts. "What? She went in by herself?"

That was a terrifying thought, and completely not what the trio had planned. Sherlock would have been lying had he said that he didn't feel a small spark of worry for the cocky pilot. Despite their differences, Sherlock actually found her a rather good conversationalist when he wasn't threatening her, and the thought of her being in danger made something in Sherlock's chest tighten.

John seemed to share his reservations. "Well, yes. It wasn't exactly ideal, but it wasn't like we could leave the getaway ship unmanned. You've been out cold, mate. Mary should be returning soon and I thought a jaunt in the snow might knock your senses back into alignment. Looks like I was right."

Sherlock's fingers curled around the cool powder he was laying in. So that's what it was. _Snow._ He immediately noticed that a heavy cloak was also strewn across his shoulders – curtesy of John no doubt. His eyes darted a ways off, to where the ship was stationed, and then back to his side where he realized his staff was also half-hazardly dumped in the snow beside him. He dropped the snow in favour of the familiar weapon.

"Have you-"

His question was cut off by the sound of a distant explosion, followed by a trembling of the planet. Both men met each other's eyes, before springing into action.

Sherlock had barely even gotten to his feet before a familiar shout drew their attention.

There, in the distance, none other than Mary Morstan was running towards them full tilt. For a brief moment, Sherlock felt a surge of hope at seeing her unscathed.

The moment ended when Sherlock spotted the fear in her eyes, and the thing fast on her tail.

 _Kylo Ren._

His breath caught in his throat. It was him. The one who was impeding his search for Molly. The one who threatened her very existence.

Sherlock saw red. He reached for the hood attached to the cloak, and draped it low over his eyes. He'd be damned if he gave away even his identity to someone so unworthy.

And then Mary _fell._

He and John were both sprinting towards her before she even made contact with the ground. There was _no way_ that Sherlock was going to allow that monster to harm the pilot. He allowed his anger to banish any lingering pain he was experiencing, in order to allow him to surge forward, sights set on his pray.

 _This_ was the one daring to stand between him and his Molly.

And he was sure to make him pay.

A blaster shot whizzed by Sherlock's shoulder as he ran, finding its home in Kylo Ren's left one. The monster hardly faltered at the action, continuing to propel forward towards its prey.

Blood pumping through his veins, fingers clenched around his staff, Sherlock whirled past Mary as she struggled to get up. He was vaguely aware of John dropping to her side, but Sherlock had other things to deal with.

Kylo Ren's attention shifted from the downed pilot to Sherlock as he rushed forward, clearly not anticipating Sherlock's mad charge. The crimson of his blade glared harshly against the snow, and Sherlock found his eyes locking manically on the weapon.

They met in a clash of frenzy and fire.

Ren brought his blade down in a terrifying slash, forcing Sherlock to side step out of the way. Sherlock barely even blinked though, using the moment of his duck to propel the butt end of his staff into the other man's ribs. He was rewarded with a low grunt.

The staff was not going to hold up for long against the other man's weapon though, and Sherlock knew it. He needed- _He needed-_

His arm reached out behind him, his blood singing the not-unfamiliar song once again. His mind threatened to rip apart into two, but his absolute _anger_ ensured that his hand didn't falter.

Time slowed. Ren stepped back for half a moment to get his breath. John shouted as something ripped away from his waistband.

And then Sherlock Holmes jolted as the lightsaber met his hand.

/

 _A hand in his._

/

" _You're my best friend, Sherlock."_

" _You're mine too."_

/

 _Stolen kisses and secret smiles._

/

" _You foolish, foolish man. I promised I would never leave you."_

/

Sherlock Holmes remembered.

And he nearly died from the agony of it all.

/

He was screaming. Screaming for his loss, screaming for what had been stolen from him. Screaming for Molly.

The thoughts – _his memories_ – flashed vividly before him as the blue of his lightsaber finally brushed away the cobwebs of confusion that had kept his memories at bay. He remembered who he was.

And _kriff_ it ached in an unfathomable way.

Turning his scream of agony into a war cry, Sherlock slashed madly at Kylo Ren, who had been taken aback by the turn of events. He slashed like the wounded animal he was, viciously and without remorse, forcing Kylo Ren to flee backwards in order to repose himself.

For the first time in six years, the Force flowed freely through Sherlock's veins. Hood pulled low, he went after the hated one, determined to put an end to them.

After all, they may have been able to defeat a scavenger from Jakku.

But they did not stand a chance against Sherlock Holmes.

/

 _For there was no enemy, nor target, nor victim seething back at him from the point across the ravine._

 _Rather, Molly Hooper stared back at him with horror, clutching at the remains of her mask as the blood ran down her face._

/

Numbness. It encroached upon Sherlock's body, and like some slow-moving toxin it had languidly infected his blood and spoiled his limbs.

 _It simply wasn't possible._

His head throbbed, though unlike the sharp pain he used to experiencing with his headaches, this pain was more of a dull ache, like the feeling of setting a dislocated shoulder. The worst of the pain was over, and now there was just a constant echo to remind him of the wound.

Sherlock Holmes remembered.

It wasn't nearly as victorious a moment as he had thought it would be. His thoughts were still slightly unfocused, as though he was watching them through a holo-feed. However, he finally could remember the memories that went along with certain feelings. He had trained as a Jedi. He had once had a best friend. He had _loved_ that best friend with all of his being.

There were also concepts that he was now more certain of that anything else. He remembered the Force, and the way it rushed through his body. His skin still prickled at the thought of the darkness. There was still an ache in his chest for the absolute _goodness_ of his best friend.

So how was Molly Hooper Kylo Ren? _It simply did not make sense._

He could still feel the anger bubbling in his veins. The sear of the lightsabers as they clashed mere inches from his exposed skin. The rumble of the ground as it split itself in two.

The splatter of crimson on snow. A scream of wretched agony.

Horror as blue eyes met brown.

Sherlock closed his eyes, willing the memory away. It simply wasn't possible. How could Molly Hooper, the quintessence of all things good, all things _wholesome,_ be Kylo Ren, Commander for the First Order, and wielder of the darkness? Mass murderer, _monster._ Everything that Sherlock was supposed to become.

His memories were still trying to sort themselves out, dusty from disuse and blurry from being locked away. But the last things Sherlock could remember was discussing plans about their potential assignment after the trials, the sickening feeling of horror as Moriarty and their Masters found them, the immediate panic as the man that he had thought of as a father threatened to separate Molly from Sherlock-

 _He felt the creature invade his senses, and power raced through his veins in a manner that he had always feared-_

He had given into the dark side in order to protect her.

But after that everything went black, and his next memory was that of his not-life, waking up on the harsh sands of Jakku, believing himself to have passed out from dehydration.

Something was still missing. But for the life of him he couldn't access it.

He let out a groan of frustration.

"Are you back with us, mate?"

John's question had Sherlock wrenching open an eye. When the ground had split him and Kylo Ren – _Molly_ – apart, he had been in too much of a state of shock to even realize that the planet was being destroyed around them. Had John and Mary not flown up in the YT-1300 and wrangled Sherlock inside, he probably would've met his demise on the crumbling planet.

The thought jolted him.

 _Had Molly made it off the planet?_

With all the chaos, the smoke and the ash, the last thing Sherlock remembered seeing was the blood dripping from her cheek (from the wound that _he_ had inflicted), while her eyes stared at him in dawning horror as she realized who he was. Whom she had been fighting. She looked at him as though she had seen a ghost.

And then she was gone, lost from his vision in the chaos.

Sherlock immediately felt sick. Molly was the reason why Starkiller Base even existed. She had murdered and slayed people in cold blood to build such a monstrosity. She wielded the dark side of the force without remorse against innocents, against _him_ -

And yet, the thought of Molly Hooper meeting her end on that cold rock made something ugly knot in Sherlock's stomach.

"Sherlock?" The ex-Stormtrooper tried timidly, once again disturbing Sherlock's musings. "You haven't muttered a word since we left that system and it's been hours."

Sherlock finally summoned the strength to raise a black brow. "Very observant of you, John."

The snarky comeback had the other man releasing a breath of… something. Was the ex-Stormtrooper truly that worried about him? The unease in Sherlock's chest abated slightly at the notion.

Perhaps not all was lost.

"Yes, well," John blustered, shifting in the seat he had taken opposite of the other man. "Mary was worried."

The other brow rose. " _Mary_ was worried?"

John shifted once more, his eyes refusing to meet Sherlock's. "Sod off, you tosser. I was worried too, alright? Happy?"

"Infinitely so." Despite the thick sarcasm there was an underlying sincerity to the words. Both men decided to ignore it.

Sherlock immediately wished he hadn't once John started probing.

"So," With a single, drawn-out syllable John Watson was capable of completely obliterating the light-hearted mood. "What the hell happened?"

Sherlock's gaze remained flat. "Mary set the charges. The charges went boom. We escaped."

John shot the other man a glare. "You bloody hell know that that's not what I mean. You're… different now. What happened when you fought Ren? And how were you able to use that lightsword?"

"It's called a lightsaber, John."

"There! That's what I'm talking about," The shorter of the two exclaimed suddenly, even managing to make Sherlock start a little. "Before you could barely even say the word without having some spazzy break-down. And now you state it as though it's a fact. What, are you going to be agreeing with me about the Jedi and the Force now?" He scoffed.

Sherlock was silent.

The other man's mirth quickly died.

"No. You serious? Mister There's-No-Such-Thing-As-A-Jedi. _Kriff,_ did Ren hit you in the head or something?"

Sherlock let out a weathered sigh, his hand coming up to massage the dull ache behind his forehead. "Or something." When the other man made no movement, Sherlock decided to get the gist of it out of the way. "When I called out to the lightsaber something happened. There had been a veil of sorts blocking out my true memories, and when I activated the 'saber it shattered. I finally remembered who I am."

"And I take it that you're not just a scrapper from Jakku?"

Sherlock gave a rueful smile. "Not quite. My name is Sherlock Holmes, but I was raised on a planet called Yavin IV. It had been the Jedi Academy up until six years ago."

A moment as the words sank in. Then: " _Kriff_ Sherlock! Are you telling me that you're an actual Jedi? That you knew Greg Lestrade? But the Academy's completely destroyed. They said that none made it out alive after Kylo Ren turned on them and slayed them all… six years ago… _Kriff!_ "

Sherlock froze. " _What?"_

John looked up from where he was not-so-quietly panicking. "What do you mean, what?"

"The Academy. It's been destroyed?"

The wrinkle on John's brow was really beginning to hate Sherlock. "Of course – everyone knows that! Six years ago, Master Lestrade's padawan turned to the dark side and brutally slayed everyone on the planet before joining the First Order. _He's_ the one who became Kylo Ren! Greg Lestrade was apparently only able to survive by fluke, and he disappeared shortly thereafter and hasn't been seen since."

Something unsettling twisted in Sherlock's stomach. "That isn't possible."

A scoff from John. "If you don't believe me you can go see the charred remains of the planet yourself."

Sherlock's gaze was haunting. "John, _I_ was Master Lestrade's padawan."

Silence.

"Then who-?"

Slowly, a picture was starting to paint itself in Sherlock's mind, he wasn't liking any bit of it. Swallowing his distaste though, he turned to John. At the least he owed the man an explanation.

"When I was a boy, my family died in a fire. Master Lestrade found me and took me to the Academy. I had always had a… predilection for the dark side of the Force, even when I wanted nothing to do with it. I was trained as a Jedi in the hopes of controlling it. Most at the Academy were terrified of me, but there was one girl who wasn't."

"Molly," John surmised, interrupting Sherlock's narrative. The taller of the two nodded in confirmation.

"Molly," He agreed. "She was my best friend, and we when we got older, she was the one I fell in love with. Our relationship was kept a secret due to the Masters' concern that relationships breed darkness. But when we were found out…" Sherlock closed his eyes as his chest ached with phantom pain. "They tried to separate us. I just, I remember being so _angry,_ so absolutely _terrified,_ and I-"

Sherlock cut himself off as the memories became too much. John seemed to sense his need to wait a moment before continuing.

It took several breaths before Sherlock found it in himself to continue. "I had thought that the only way that I could save her was if I embraced the darkness."

A beat of silence. John shuffled his feet slightly. "But that doesn't make sense. You're clearly not Kylo Ren."

"I know," Sherlock sighed. "But Molly is."

Understandably, the words took a moment to sink in. And needless to say, John took the information very, _very_ badly.

" _What!?"_ The bellow made Sherlock flinch slightly, and he wouldn't have been surprised if Mary had heard it up in the cockpit. "Kylo Ren- She's- Your ex-girlfriend is Kylo Ren?!"

Sherlock let out a sigh through his nose. "Apparently."

The dejected word was enough to draw John out of his stupor, and he slumped down into his chair as he tried to process the information in a calmer fashion.

"How does that even work? What- _Who_ killed everyone six years ago?"

The grimace was short-lived. "I don't know. Molly was good. Molly was _light._ There shouldn't have been anyway that she'd have ever even entertained the idea of killing another. And I specifically remember giving into the darkness myself before the black spot in my memory. If anyone killed everyone, it was much more likely that it was _me."_

Awkward silence. "Well that's not reassuring or anything."

Sherlock shot the shorter man a glare. "Obviously I don't want to have done that. I'm just saying that it makes much more sense than Molly doing it."

John chewed on his lip. "Yeah, but you say she's now Kylo Ren. And the Kylo Ren I know has killed hundreds, probably even thousands without regard."

Sherlock rubbed at his temple again. "I need to figure out what happened. Molly-" He bit his tongue in frustration, "-There has to be an explanation for everything. Molly's _not_ evil. She's _not_ a monster. When my hood blew back and I cut though her mask, she looked horrified. But more than that, she looked like she had seen a ghost. My Molly is still in there, and I _know_ that I can save her. I must go after her."

"Mate," John drew out the syllable, his eyes darting anywhere but towards Sherlock's. "I understand- well, scratch that. I _don't_ understand your predicament. But clearly Molly's important to you since you somehow even managed to remember her during your time on Jakku. But you might have to consider, Sherlock, that she might be _gone._ The things Kylo Ren has done, the atrocities committed at his- er, her behest… the Molly that you knew isn't there, Sherlock."

The words were like a physical blow.

It was worse because Sherlock secretly thought that they might be true. For despite all his convictions that she still knew him, _still loved him,_ there was still the niggling doubt that he was wrong.

 _And the_ hate _in your eyes…_

The echo of Molly's sobs pierced his mind as he recalled the evening after the Gathering process, when he and Molly had gone through their padawan trials to collect their crystals. She had foreseen him attacking her with the desire to kill her, and now that had come to pass.

She had also foreseen herself killing him.

Suddenly Sherlock felt fairly light-headed. Despite the fact that it was Molly who had become the tool of the dark side, and Sherlock who fought in the light, it didn't change the outcome. They were now on opposite sides of the battlefield.

He was going to be sick.

"Easy there, mate," John said, noticing Sherlock's rapidly changing pallor. "I didn't mean- It's just-"

"It's fine, John. I understand."

His words were controlled; measured. Because even as he said them, he was already planning on going against John's warning, disregarding his own advice.

If Molly Hooper killed him, so be it.

He'd at least have a chance to stand beside her one last time.

/

Mary had made the executive decision to return to D'Qar. The destruction of Starkiller Base was a definite win for the Resistance, but they were still sorely behind on the war front of things. If there was anytime to try and find the elusive Master Lestrade, now was it while the First Order was running around in chaos.

Sherlock was unsure of how he felt about that.

On one hand, Sherlock still felt the bitter bite of anger and betrayal on the back of his tongue when he thought about the man. He couldn't help but blame his old Master for their current predicament. Had the meddlesome old man not tried to separate Sherlock and Molly all those years ago, the galaxy would be in a very different state at the moment.

Namely, Molly wouldn't be Kylo Ren and Sherlock wouldn't be at a lost as to what to do.

The thought of seeing Lestrade again brought a fury into Sherlock's blood, and he'd found himself straining against his impulses.

On the other hand, though, there was another part of Sherlock that _wanted_ to find Lestrade. Because despite the horribleness of their current situation, Lestrade was still the man who had taken Sherlock in when he had nothing. Raised him like a son when Sherlock had no one.

He had been the older brother that Sherlock had lost at much too young an age.

And in truth, Sherlock was simply _hurt_ by what Lestrade had done. Although he hadn't always seen eye to eye with the man, he had still been his family, and the little boy buried in Sherlock's mind simply wanted to be comforted once again.

Needless to say, Sherlock was wary about delivering the map to Lady Smallwood. With his memories restored he could now recall the Council Woman – though Mary had informed him that she had dropped out of the senate years ago and now was on the run as the leader of the Resistance. The world had unfortunately changed greatly in the six years that Sherlock had been stuck on Jakku, and he found himself resentful of most of those changes.

He let out a sigh as he ran a hand across his features – a habit that he seemed to be doing a lot of recently. Scowling to himself, he readjusted his lanky frame on the narrow cot.

He supposed now was as good a moment as any.

With another breath, Sherlock closed his eyes. He had been planning to do this since his memories had been restored hours previously, but he kept finding excuse after excuse to put the task off. Now, alone in his room with the firm instructions of John to rest, Sherlock couldn't procrastinate any longer.

He reached out to the Force plane.

It took much longer than it used to, and even he could tell that his connection was weak. But in a way it was like walking; your body never really forgot even when it was out of practice.

He let out a breath as the vastness of the Force stretched out before him. Now that he had had some time to analyze his thoughts, he knew without a doubt that whoever had adjusted his memories (he was presuming it to have been Lestrade; another point in the former Master's disfavour) had also somehow managed to seal him away from the Force while he had been on Jakku.

It was the only way to ensure that Sherlock wouldn't turn to the dark side without supervision after all.

As he stared at his Force energy it was clear that something was… wrong. Like it had been capped for too long, and now couldn't reconnect properly with the rest of the Force. Undoubtedly his activation of the saber had shattered whatever veil had been placed over his memories and his connection to the Force, but the broken pieces had then pierced what was left, and now he could feel the Force drifting lazily through him, oozing in a way that it wasn't supposed to.

It was disconcerting. But not as disconcerting as the jagged ends of what had once been his Force Bond with Molly.

On closer inspection Sherlock realized that the bond had been viciously torn apart. But it looked strange, as though an influx of energy had destroyed it, and not someone intervening from the outside. In fact, there even seemed to be-

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat.

One string of the bond remained.

Though, after a few moments of hesitantly staring at it, Sherlock saw that it wasn't a remnant of their old Force bond, but rather a _new_ string, like the one that had once developed after they had received their crystals.

Odd. It had taken Sherlock and Molly years to form a connection through the Force. The fact that a single moment of awareness was able to re-establish their connection was a tad unsettling.

Hesitantly, Sherlock focused closer on the strand. It appeared like all the other connections of energy. While his end was bursting with bright blue energy, however, it quickly cut off into inky blackness, before shooting off into space.

Sherlock had to fight every instinct in his body not to follow it.

He settled for brushing up against it instead, barely getting close enough to feel the pulse of energy-

He jolted out of the Force plane.

Gasping like a fish out of water, Sherlock flailed to sit up in his bed.

Only, he wasn't in his bed any longer.

He blinked rapidly as his brain tried to process the new environment, gleaming metal walls having replaced the stained ones of his room on the YT-1300. The bed he was laying on was basic, and a quick survey of the room revealed why – medical tools lined the counters, and a med-droid was sitting deactivated in the corner, awaiting a command.

What the _kriff_ was going on?

His hearing was funny, as though listening to something through a tunnel. But after a quick shake of his head it finally managed to zero in some what on a faint buzzing coming through the open door on his left.

At a lost of what to do, Sherlock got up and walked through the door.

His heart nearly burst in panic at the sight that greeted him. Unfortunately, his mouth could never quite keep up with his common sense, which was why he found himself blurting out: "Molly?"

The figure in question jolted at the word, causing the med-droid that was working on closing the scar on her face to halt its progress.

For half a terrifying heartbeat, both just stared at each other, eyes wide in disbelief. She was there, inexplicably. Cloaked in her black get-up, with her hair hanging limply across her shoulders. Sitting on a stool as a med-droid stitched together the scar that stretched the expanse of her cheek and up nearly through her eye.

Sherlock blanched.

 _He had done that to her._

"What are you doing here?" Her words were rushed as she pushed the nagging med-droid aside, eyes darting nervously over his frame. "How did you get here?"

"Here?" Sherlock parroted back in confusion. "I was just Force Walking – I have no idea why I woke up on your ship."

Something clicked behind Molly's dark eyes. "That's because you didn't. You must be projecting yourself to me across the Force."

Sherlock's brows furrowed. Granted, his memories were still a little murky, but he couldn't recall any mention of Force Projection when he had been at the Academy. "What are you going on about?"

But Molly already seemed to be following her own train of thought. "Where are you?" Her eyes narrowed suddenly, as she shifted her way off the stool. For the first time in his life, Sherlock felt the panicked urge to back-up as she drew neared to him. "How can you see my surroundings if I can only see you?"

Despite his instincts, Sherlock held his ground in the doorframe, and was secretly relieved when she stopped her prowl a solid five feet away from him still. "I don't know. Our bond was destroyed, but there seems to be a new sort of connection that's formed. Perhaps that's it. Or perhaps I'm just stronger than you and have come in the name of espionage."

Molly raised a brow and gave a crooked smile – too crooked for what he remembered her having all those years ago. "If that's the case you're doing a rather poor job of the subtly portion of that claim. As for the other," The smile fell from her marred face as she finally broke eye contact with him. "You aren't the stronger one anymore."

A heaviness settled on their shoulders with the weight of Moly's words. For the first time since his lightsaber had activated in his hand, Sherlock seized the moment to ask the question that had been haunting him.

"Molly, what happened to us?"

The question held just as much – if not more – weight than Molly's previous statement, and it was something that had been slowly gnawing at Sherlock's insides like a bad parasite. How did they go from two of the most promising students at the Jedi Academy, to Kylo Ren and the Scavenger from Jakku?

What was it that he couldn't remember?

Any soft edges that Molly might have had immediately closed off, as her eyes flashed with ice. Sherlock felt the skin on his forearms prickle as the old familiarity of the darkness coursed through the room.

Only, for the first time in his life, the darkness wasn't emanating from him.

Molly – although in this moment she was truly Kylo Ren – stepped forward once more, posture rigid and eyes promising darkness. Sherlock could feel whatever hold he had on the Force, whatever had managed to bring his astral projection before her, begin to slip as his fear of her began to take over.

The woman before him was not his Molly, as she stared at him with haunted, murderous eyes.

"You died," Her whisper reached his ears just as he began to black out from the scene around him. "You died and left me alone."

/

Sherlock was jolted into consciousness by a rough shake to his shoulder.

"Mate? You alright? We've arrived," John's voice cut through the haze that the Force Projection had left Sherlock in. He blinked thrice to ensure that he actually was on the YT-1300, and not still on the Finalizer.

When John's wrinkled brow came into focus before him instead of Molly's scarred cheek, he let out a breath that he hadn't realized that he had been holding.

"John," His voice was slightly strained. "Where's Mary?"

"Ensuring that we're not shot upon arrival," The shorter man half joked, before his face became slightly more serious. "Are you okay? You look like you've somehow managed to do the opposite of resting."

Sherlock made a noise of neither confirmation or denial in the back of his throat. As much as he liked John – which was bizarre in itself – he was still wary of who to trust. John's words about believing Molly to be too far gone were still brutally fresh in Sherlock's mind, and he wasn't sure how the ex-Stormtrooper would react to finding out that Sherlock had just communicated with Kylo Ren.

"I'm fine," He said. "Just trying to figure out what's going on with my Force connection now that I finally have access to it again."

"Right," John drew out the syllable as though he didn't quite believe him, but didn't have enough knowledge to state otherwise. "Anyways let's go. I'm starving and hoping for a buffet."

As John moved out of the way and through the door, Sherlock brought himself to his full height, reaching for his staff out of habit. Although his lightsaber was now firmly secured to his belt, his staff was like an old friend, and he had a feeling that he was about to need all the friends he could get at the moment.

He only hesitated slightly before going and following John.

/

Unfortunately, there was no buffet.

There was, however, quite the entourage of cheers that greeted them, followed by an immediate emergency meeting to discuss what had happened and their next course of action.

Sherlock, unfortunately, was all but dragged along by the ear by Mary who was intent on not letting him or John out of her sight. It was hardly necessary – although Mary was unaware of his current predicament fully, Sherlock was hardly expressing the antsy vibes of leaving that he had been before Starkiller Base. He needed as much time to regroup and come to a new game plan as the rest of them.

Plus, Sherlock wasn't overly keen on leaving Redbeard behind. The annoying droid had somehow grown on him.

It wasn't until they were sardined in some sort of control room, that Sherlock felt the itch to flee. An itched that flared into an almost panic as his eyes met those of Senator Smallwood.

Or Lady Smallwood, as she was now known.

She had stiffened immediately in disbelief, and her discomfort didn't go unnoticed by her followers who quickly silenced themselves at the abrupt change of atmosphere. Sherlock himself felt his breath catch in his throat, as the familiar eyes locked onto his face.

"It simply isn't possible," She whispered, though it was easily heard by all in the harsh silence.

Sherlock had truly only met Lady Smallwood a handful of times – back when she was a Senator and visited Yavin IV on the pretense of politics. As Sherlock had always been quite close with Lestrade, and then was his padawan, he had been privy to a handful of meetings that had passed between his mentor and the senator. Although Sherlock had always found her incredibly boring and unworthy of note, the feeling wasn't mutual, and the older woman had always eyed Sherlock with something akin to fear.

She was doing it again right now.

Being the inconsiderate prat that he was, he merely raised a brow. "Senator."

Mary stiffened in confusion. "You know each other?"

But Lady Smallwood ignored the statement, already in a tizzy, post-poning the all-so-important debriefing and ordering all but a few out of the room.

Mary's grip on Sherlock's wrist tightened, and John shifted uncomfortably in all the hullabaloo.

Within moments there was only the three of them, Lady Smallwood, and two other people in the room. One was an older gentleman with an impressive amount of medallions on his lapel, and the other was-

"Mrs. Hudson?" The name left Sherlock's mouth in disbelief. "How are you-"

His line of inquiry was cut off by a blaster being pointed in his face. His friends acted instantly, Mary raising her hands in a placating gesture, while John levelled his own blaster at the culprit before Sherlock could even blink.

For her part, Lady Smallwood didn't so much as flinch as John's blaster came level with her head.

"Sherlock Holmes," The name was all but spat. "Or should I say, Kylo Ren? One wrong move and your head will be the price."

Pushing the limits as he always did, Sherlock tilted his head in a taunting measure. "If you recall me so well then you'll also recall that I can do more harm to that blaster than it can do to me. And your information is wrong, I'm not Kylo Ren."

"Liar!" Smallwood shouted, and although her face briefly contorted with emotion, her blaster did not shake. "You killed them all. Greg would not speak a word of the incident, but I could read between the lines. You always did struggle with the dark side."

Although Mary looked exceedingly confused, she still held fast, even stepping before the blaster in Smallwood's hand and sufficiently drawing the other woman's attention away.

"He's telling the truth," Her voice brokered no argument. "We just came from fighting the First Order. Despite what you may believe, there is no possible way that Sherlock is Kylo Ren."

In his peripheral vision, Sherlock saw John's blaster waver. And yet, the man retained his silence. Interesting.

At Mary's words Lady Smallwood seemed to falter, the tip of her blaster lowering slightly. Her piercing gaze redirected itself to Sherlock's icy blue one. "If that's true, then where have you been all these years?"

Sherlock could've responded with anything, but he quickly decided on the truth. "Jakku."

The word was harsh in the empty control room, and so entirely unexpected that Lady Smallwood finally dropped her blaster, her brow furrowing in disbelief. "What?"

Sherlock reached out and placed his hand on John's shoulder, eventually convincing the man to stand down although he kept a distrustful glare on Smallwood.

"We evidently have a lot to discuss," Sherlock drawled slowly. "And perhaps we can go somewhere a little more private to do so."

/

Mrs. Hudson was having a hullaballoo.

She seemed to be missing the tenseness of the situation, in favour of doing her utmost to humiliate Sherlock for life.

"-so happy to see you again, Sherlock. I never thought I'd get the chance, honestly. After all that nasty business at the Academy – I had been off-world visiting my sister at the time, imagine my surprise when I heard the news! – Greg said you hadn't made it-"

And on and on and on the tirade went as Sherlock, John, Mary and Mrs. Hudson were ushered by a tense Lady Smallwood into a smaller, more private room.

In all sincerity, Sherlock was quite pleased to see the older woman once more. Although he had never been overly close with Mrs. Hudson, the old cook was one of the few adults in the Academy who had never paid any heed to Sherlock's differentness. She was like a mother hen in a way, and it was a breath of relief to find out that a small sliver of Sherlock's previous life had managed to stay the same.

Lady Smallwood, however, was not as glad.

The door had barely shut before the ex-Senator cut to the chase. "Explain. Now."

And he did. As much as Sherlock hated being told what to do, he also understood the gravity of the situation. If he expected any information in turn, he'd have to be a little generous on his part.

Though by generous, he meant that he kept the facts to the bare minimum, mentioning a disagreement with Lestrade before he blacked out. Molly was nowhere in his narrative.

"So you don't recall anything between your last memories on Yavin IV and waking up on Jakku?" The old lady was skeptical, and Sherlock could hardly blame her.

"Nope," He popped the 'p', slightly fed up with the constant question. "But now I believe it's your turn. What happened to the Academy?"

Lady Smallwood sighed. For a moment, Sherlock thought that she wouldn't answer, though when she finally did, he almost wished she hadn't.

"It was a massacre. Everyone could feel it – something shifted so greatly in the Force that day that even those not Force Sensitive were able to tell that something was vastly wrong in the universe. It wasn't until Master Lestrade showed up on my doorstep looking like death that I had an inkling of what had happened.

"He was in a frenzy," Smallwood turned away from Sherlock's intense glare, eyes finding a new interest in the table. "Kept mumbling about having failed, having lost a student to the dark side. Naturally, we all presumed that he was talking about you."

"Naturally," Sherlock sardonically agreed.

Mrs. Hudson shifted uncomfortably as Lady Smallwood continued. "Lestrade was all but gone. Said he needed to get away. We had thought he meant for a few days to sort things out. Only he never came back. After a few weeks without word, we finally decided to search him out at the Academy.

"Only there was no Academy left," Sherlock felt his body tense at the words, although he had already predicted such a thing to have happened. "There was nothing but charred remains, and- and-"

" _And?"_ Sherlock cut her off impatiently.

Her eyes reached up to meet his in a sickened snarl. " _And bodies,_ Sherlock Holmes. Hundreds of bodies."

John sucked in a breath. Mary let out a small gasp. Sherlock never wavered in his stare.

"Whichever student turned to the dark side, slaughtered the Academy. Somehow Lestrade must've escaped with you, and I suspect he left you on Jakku with your memories suppressed in the hopes that you could live a life separate of the struggle you constantly faced. Until we find him though, I suppose we won't know. Just as we don't seem to know who Kylo Ren actually is anymore either," The challenge wasn't at all subtle.

Sherlock didn't rise to the bait. "I'd put my units on Moriarty. He always was a snake."

Smallwood seemed unperturbed by his stoicism on the matter, merely raising an eyebrow. "Yes, well, now that we have the map to Lestrade, I suppose we'll find out soon enough."

As the interrogation finally adjourned in order to resume the previous meeting that had been interrupted (Sherlock couldn't help the snarky comment that fell from his tongue at that statement), Sherlock could practically _feel_ John fidgeting beside him.

When the leaders of the Resistance once again began discussing their plans to find Lestrade, Sherlock slipped out the door, John hot on his heels. Both were aware of Mary eyeing them suspiciously, but the pilot was unfortunately the center of the discussion with the information she had, as well as due to the fact that she was an actual Resistance member unlike Sherlock and John.

They were barely in the corridor before John was frantically questioning Sherlock.

"Why didn't you tell them who Kylo Ren is?" The shorter man all but hissed.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's dramatis, not faltering at his break-neck pace. "Because that information is irrelevant."

"Irrele-" Sherlock didn't have to look to know that John's eyes were popping out of his head. " _Force,_ Sherlock, how the _kriffing_ hell is it irrelevant?"

"Because what this pathetic group really needs to be working on are things the can change. Knowing who Kylo Ren is will not change the tides of the war. Knowing where Lestrade is, however, will actually help them, loath as I am to admit."

It was more than evident that John did not fully agree with him, but if the ex-Stormtrooper had a problem with it, than he could deal with it. Sherlock had bigger fish to fry.

"Where are you going?" John finally decided to change his line of inquiry.

"My quarters," Was the gruff response. "I need to assess in further detail the damage to my memory."

"Quarters?" John scrunched his nose up. "You don't have quarters."

Another eyeroll from Sherlock as he turned down the hall that he deduced as leading to the living quarters. It only took half a moment for him to glance at the doors and presume which one was the least likely to be used, before he waltzed up to the door and used the Force to open it.

He did his best to ignore John's gaping mouth at the simple action.

"I do now," He stated tersely. "Let me know when they come to a verdict on what they're doing with Lestrade. Until then, there's a canteen down the hall. I'm sure you'll find something to keep yourself occupied."

He closed the door before John could get an edge in word-wise. Was it rude? Undoubtedly. Did Sherlock care?

No.

There were more important things at hand. With a sigh and a will of the Force, Sherlock absentmindedly locked the door before collapsing on the bed. His head was starting to hurt, and that was never a good sign.

It had hit him, at some point during Lady Smallwood's accusations, what exactly was so different now. It wasn't just the holes in his memory, the state of the galaxy, or the shift in dynamics between him and Molly that was throwing him askew.

No, he had realized what exactly was so glaringly different and it was none of those other things, despite how monumental all of them were.

It was the Force.

Or rather, his absolute lack of connection to the dark side of the Force.

He hadn't noticed it back on Starkiller Base, too consumed with his desire to _kill_ Kylo Ren to even question whether such a desire was forged from the darkness or simply existed out of his own will. Afterwards his mind had been too much of a mess to accurately diagnose anything.

It wasn't until he felt Molly tap into the dark side of the Force over their Force Bond, that Sherlock realised that something was different. And it was only when Lady Smallwood brought up his old weakness that the puzzle finally fell together.

The darkness was simply… gone.

He didn't know how else to describe the sensation. Where there had once been a constant thrum beneath his skin, a persistent yearning to plunge into the unfathomable, there was now silence. Where poisonous thoughts used to pervade his mind, a strange sort of hollowness now resided.

The darkness was gone, and what simply remained was the Force.

There was no tug, no pull in a certain direction over another. Rather, when Sherlock opened his mind to the Force there was simply power at his fingertips… but with no more right or wrong predilection to said power.

It simply was.

It was disturbing, to say the least. Where once Sherlock was constantly having an inner battle to remain in the light, now his mind was at rest. It wasn't like balance where he could feel light and darkness flowing equally. Rather, it was absence; neither good nor bad existed.

Any thoughts that Sherlock had were his alone, and yet they did not fuel his usage of the Force. While on Starkiller base he had had the sole desire to kill Kylo Ren, although that was fueled from his own misconceptions rather than the dark side of the Force. Looking back on it, his motivations had had zero impact on his usage of the Force.

It was… bizarre.

He still had dangerous thoughts, and he still had too expressive emotions. But none of it seemed to have any impact on his control of the Force anymore. Rather, the Force now appeared to simply be a tool that Sherlock could wield as he pleased, without the constant fear of being the tool himself.

It was liberating.

And also terrifying.

For if the Force wasn't light or dark, how could he tell if he was good or bad? If his own motivations and thoughts were the sole source of his actions, what would that say about the person he was?

Without the excuse of the darkness, would he truly stand up in the light?

It was a thought that Sherlock didn't want to spend too much time dwelling on. Perhaps if they found Lestrade, the older man would be able to clear up Sherlock's latest confusing reality. That was a rather large if though, and one that came with its own set of headaches.

Not wanting to open that can of worms, Sherlock decided to head to the 'fresher to try to wash his problems away.

It didn't work, of course. But on the bright side at least he finally felt clean for the first time in six years.

Living on Jakku had come with its own set of problems, and personal hygiene hadn't been all that high on Sherlock's priorities while he had been fighting hunger and the unforgiving desert. While he had never let himself fall to Unkar Plutt's level of disgustingness, he certainly hadn't been the freshest scavenger around.

It took him much longer than he remembered it taking, but eventually he had scrubbed all remains of the battle on Starkiller Base, the desert, and the last six years of grime from his lean body. It was strange seeing himself in the mirror with both lives lodged firmly in his mind.

Where days previous his gangly body was a given, he now could remember a time where he was more healthily proportioned. He had always been on the lankier side of things, but his time on Jakku had shed a layer of muscle from lack of use and nutrition, and while he still knew that he could hold his own in a fight, he also looked like someone who would fall over if the wind blew too hard.

He was also older than he remembered. Jakku didn't leave much time for self-appraisal, and now that Sherlock could remember with clarity what he had looked like before, he was now all too aware of the extra crinkles on his forehead, and the lines around his eyes. The Jakku sun was harsh, and Sherlock had been unable to escape its acceleration of time.

No wonder John was always badgering him. He probably thought that Sherlock would pass out if he turned the other way.

Sighing, Sherlock turned away from his reflection. He had put his clothes through the cycle while he was in the 'fresher, so now he was able to shrug on his clean – albeit worn – tunic and trousers. Clipping his lightsaber to his belt again, he eyed his arm wraps for a moment, before ultimately reaching for them. They might've been pointless without a harsh sun to protect him from, but they were a familiar habit that he had fallen into on Jakku.

He unfortunately didn't have many of those left.

Still wrapping his left arm, Sherlock stepped out of the 'fresher-

-Only to step into a room that was decidedly not the one that he had hijacked on the D'Qar base.

He blinked at the abrupt change of scenery, his hackles rising only momentarily at the sudden, uncontrolled Force Projection. The lack of control was startling, especially when Sherlock really wanted nothing more than to _sleep._

"What are you doing here?" The monotonous words were more a statement than a question, as though Molly truly didn't care either way. Sherlock sighed as he finished tucking the wrapping under itself, before running a hand through his hair.

"Can we not do this right now? It's kind of a bad time," He cast his eyes to the monochrome steel walls of her chamber, not sure if he was emotionally prepared to see her again, to see the scarthat _he_ had put on her face.

Her response was a snort. "You're the one who rudely dropped in."

Sherlock's brows furrowed as he finally swivelled his gaze to her. "That's not possible. I was minding my own business. _You_ must have pulled me here through the Force."

The battered figured slumped on the bed didn't even bother looking up, for which Sherlock was oddly grateful. She was fiddling with her lightsaber, though her hands stilled at his words.

He spoke too soon.

She looked up.

"I'm not quite in the state of mind to be using the Force to such extremes," She muttered as Sherlock appraised her with dawning horror.

Her face was gaunt, the colour all but gone. The ragged scar that ran up her cheek was hardly even noticeable compared to the absolute deadness that sat heavily behind her dark eyes.

Sherlock felt something deep within his stomach clench. A protectiveness that a change in dynamics couldn't withstand against years of friendship and love.

"What happened to you?"

Molly went back to fiddling with her lightsaber. "The Supreme Leader doesn't approve of failure." She didn't elaborate, but the bitterness of her words left no room for argument.

Sherlock saw red.

"Force dammit Molly!" He suddenly bellowed, earning a start from the woman on the bed. His anger was fizzling within him. "Why the _kriff_ would you willing stay with someone who hurts you? You're stronger than that!"

A flash of something in Molly's eye gave him a bit of hope, before it was gone. She tilted her head in intrigue.

"Interesting," She completely dismissed his outburst. "Your anger is consuming you, but it's not affecting the Force at all."

Her casual dismissal did nothing for Sherlock's temper. "That is irrelevant," His tone suddenly was laced with the smallest tad of desperation. "Molly, why are you doing this? Why won't you leave the First Order? Do I truly mean nothing to you now?"

His words were followed by a flinch on her part. "Leave me alone, Sherlock. Everything we were, everything that happened… it's in the past. _Let the past die_."

It was his turn to flinch. He wanted to move closer, shake her by the shoulders, scream until he saw black. But he felt rooted to his place by the door, and he could do no more than clench and unclench his fists.

"Don't say that," He refused to believe an ounce of what she was saying, knowing that it was stemming from the darkness and not from her. "That isn't you speaking, Molly. That's Kylo Ren."

"I _am_ Kylo Ren."

" _No,"_ Sherlock all but snarled the word. "You're _stronger_ than that. You are light and you are goodness and _you are the one that I love."_

Stillness.

A chink in her armour.

"Don't say that, Sherlock. Not to me."

"Why?" He was getting annoyed now. "It's true. I love you, Molly Hooper. I always have and I always will until either you come back to your senses or you take that lightsaber and run me through. _I love you."_

There were tears now. Running parallelly down his cheeks and hers. His in desperation, hers in utter agony.

"Please, don't do this, Sherlock. Just… don't do it," Her voice cracked as she finally allowed the emotional pain to overcome her.

Sherlock wouldn't be persuaded. For while he knew there was pain, he also felt a brilliant flare of _hope_ in his chest. If she was denying him for the reason that he thought her to be… then that meant his Molly was still there. It meant that all was not lost.

"Say it," He insisted, knowing that she would understand. "Please, just say those words for me."

"I can't," She still rebutted. "Not to you."

His was harsh in return. " _Why?"_

"You _know_ why."

Desperation and annoyance were lacing themselves into something ugly in Sherlock's chest. "No, I _don't."_

Her lightsaber was abandoned now, the full force of her tear-filled gaze directed hatefully at Sherlock. But there was more beneath the hate that he was drawing out. And he watched as it finally broke free.

"Because… because it's _true,_ Sherlock. It's always been true."

The universe stopped as Sherlock finally heard enough to resolve him in his conviction. His Molly was still in there. She was still there, and he'd be damned if he didn't save her.

He smiled. "You love me," The whisper was soft.

Molly nodded her head, almost as though in defeat. "I love you," The admission was a silent echo of a greater, unseen depth.

Sherlock felt as though his body had become light.

Then Molly's broken gaze hardened, as she met Sherlock's eyes determinedly. "I love you," She repeated. "And _that's_ why I must be Kylo Ren."

/

Sherlock jolted back into reality at the sudden banging on the door.

"Sherlock get your lazy arse up! We're heading out to find Master Lestrade!"

Disjointed from both his sudden return to reality and the last few moments of his conversation with Molly, it took Sherlock a moment to realize that it was John banging on his door and hollering like a Hutt. He took another moment to collect himself before simultaneously swinging himself off the bed and Force opening the door.

John paused mid-swing, looking surprisingly startled at Sherlock's appearance for someone who was insisting upon it not even a moment prior.

Sherlock raised an unimpressed brow. "You were saying?"

"Right," The shorter man straightened himself out, his lifetime of military training more than evident in his posture. "They've decrypted the map and Lady Smallwood has approved a small party to go and retrieve Master Lestrade. We both made the cut, me because you're going, and you because, well, you know."

" _Right_ ," Sherlock couldn't help the slightly mocking-drawl at the ex-Stormtrooper's evident discomfort at mentioning Sherlock's history. Well, at least that made two of them.

On the downside, Lestrade would most certainly make a pest of himself with the whole Molly situation. Sherlock was _so close._ He could practically hear Molly screaming to be free of the darkness, and he knew that the next few hours were crucial.

If he didn't get to Molly now, there might not be a Molly for him to rescue in the future.

Not that John could know that, unfortunately.

"I'll meet you at the landing strip," Sherlock stated, heading decidedly the other way down the hallway to throw the older man off.

John wasn't so easily persuaded though. "What- Where are you going?"

"I need to confer something with Smallwood before we go," Sherlock didn't even hesitate, his fib appearing all the more real for his efforts as he shouted over his shoulder. "I'll be quick. See you in ten."

He rounded the corner before John could throw up a protest.

Knowing that time and his circumstances were against him, Sherlock quickly rounded back on his trail, tapping into the Force to persuade any that he came across that they hadn't actually seen him. He needed to get off-planet before any suspicion was raised, otherwise his efforts would've been for naught.

As he snuck into the hangar, he couldn't help but grin as his eyes alighted upon the parked X-wing away from the crowds. He only needed to get air born without being stopped, after that, leaving would be a piece of cake.

After all, Sherlock the scavenger was decidedly hopeless when it came to piloting. Thus, it was a good thing that he was also Sherlock the Jedi.

/

John was having a lovely discussion with Mary when Sherlock Holmes, true to form, had to blow it all to bits.

Literally.

One moment they were flirting, and the next they were dashing for cover in the chaos, as the engine of one of the X-wings roared to life.

John barely had to look to recognize the mop of curly dark hair in the pilot's seat as the ship blasted out of the hangar.

Mary swore under her breath. "What the bloody hell is he thinking?"

But John wasn't paying attention, his eyes wide in horror as something decidedly wretched sunk into the pit of his stomach.

"He isn't," His mutter was lost in the sea of shouts. "He's going after her. He's going after Molly."

/

In some aspects, everything was a blur.

Sherlock had locked onto Molly's Force signature, and had programmed the coordinates into his ship, knowing that she'd be on the Finalizer with the supposed Supreme Leader of the First Order.

To be honest, his plan wasn't much more than _find Molly, kill the Supreme Leader,_ and _rescue Molly._ The details were unimportant, which was why he felt no need for stealth.

When he entered their airspace, he radioed in, stating who he was and that he'd come for Kylo Ren.

Unsurprisingly, she was waiting for him in the hangar, furious since the moment she had felt his presence arrive.

Her eyes were dark as they locked with his. Without a word she summoned his lightsaber into her hand and turned on her heel, Stormtroopers and First Order personnel parting in her wake. Sherlock followed dutifully. Not a word was passed between them until they were squirreled away in some sort of elevator, the doors separating them from prying ears.

"You shouldn't be here."

The words were harsh, as though everything Molly had been fighting to prevent had occurred. Sherlock just raised a brow, eyes skimming over the scar of her cheek.

"I'm right where I'm supposed to be."

He watched as Molly bit her lip in frustration, catching the undercurrent of desperation in her angry eyes.

"The Supreme Leader is expecting you." Her tone was flat, dead. Sherlock merely shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Excellent."

His nonchalant response finally lit the tinder of her rage. " _Sithspit Sherlock!"_ She whirled on him in righteous anger, her nose merely inches from his in the small elevator. "This is not a game!"

His mouth was inches from hers. His fingers cam up and ghosted over the scar that he had bestowed upon her of their own accord. "I know."

"Do you?" The whisper was full of an unspoken betrayal.

Sherlock merely inclined his head ever so slightly. "You know I do. The question, really, is why _you_ insist on your charade when we could just put an end to all of this right now."

She broke eye contact first. "It's more complicated than that."

A hint of impatience in his chest. "Then uncomplicate it."

"It doesn't work that way," She all but sneered, eyes coming back up to his. "This isn't one of your experiments, Sherlock, that you can manipulate at will. There are forces at work that you cannot even barely begin to comprehend, and by so foolishly coming here you are giving them all they've ever wanted!"

"And what about what you want?" His retort was quick and clear. "Does that not count for something?"

He watched as the anger died in her eyes, being replaced by the brokenness that he had witnessed over the Force Projection. "I don't matter. Not anymore."

"Wrong," His hand was on her cheek, his ice blue eyes bearing into her lost brown ones. "You always matter. And I've come to put an end to this charade once and for all."

And then the elevator stopped and the door swung open.

And Sherlock Holmes went out to slay the dragon.

/

The throne room, as it appeared to be, was empty save for a lone figure on the far end, resting languidly in a plush chair.

Sherlock had a rather large suspicion of who the Supreme Leader was, despite the heavy cloak and hood draped over said figure's body.

"Supreme Leader," He strolled forward languidly, despite the tension he could feel Molly giving off in the Force. "I've come to kill you."

His blunt statement was rewarded with an amused chuckle, though the response was an insidious tickle in his mind.

 _Have you now?_

The silky voice that penetrated Sherlock's mind brought back his childhood fears as the monster who had once haunted Sherlock's nightmares finally stood before him in the flesh.

Fighting the rush of fear, Sherlock merely cocked an eyebrow. "I have. And I'll thank you for releasing Molly from the darkness you've somehow pervaded her with before I kill you."

 _Good to see your time in the desert didn't deprive you of your tongue._ Sherlock could feel sticky fingers rooting through his memories, and he immediately called on the Force to attempt to push the snake out.

After a moment he did pull away, but Sherlock presumed it wasn't because of his efforts at expulsion. He felt a snarl forming on his face. "Release Molly from whatever perverse illusion you've made her believe, and perhaps I'll make your death quick."

His saber was still in Molly's possession, and some sort of veil was preventing him from pulling it towards him. It mattered not though – he had a list of creative ways on how to get rid of the Supreme Leader.

He felt a chuckle in his mind. _My dear boy,_ The voice crooned. _She is under no spell, no coercion, no fantasy. She is exactly where she has_ chosen _to be._

" _Liar!"_ Sherlock's shout was harsh in the empty room.

The whisper that met his response was even harsher.

"He's right, Sherlock," Molly wouldn't meet his eye, her hand curled around the hilt of her saber as though at the ready. "You don't understand. You shouldn't have come."

Her whispered defeat sent a flood of fury through Sherlock's already racing veins. He was not going to lose her so easy. She was his Molly, and he'd die sooner than watch her pass another moment under the Supreme Leader's thumb.

It was now or never. He needed to play his ace.

"I understand enough," He growled, his will finally overcoming the veil that was blocking him, as his saber flew from Molly's belt into his waiting hand, blue energy flaring to life. "And I refuse to let you take advantage of her for a minute more, _Moriarty!"_

The room stilled. Molly's eyes were wide in horror. Sherlock wore a smug smirk as he revealed the trump that he had figured out on the way over.

And then a raspy chuckle broke the reverie.

It was a harsh sound, as though air was escaping from places it shouldn't have been able to. Sherlock slowly felt his confidence leak away, as the Supreme Leader stepped forward, and Molly Hooper stepped back.

"That isn't Jim Moriarty," Molly's whisper was lost in the rustle of fabric as the figure before him reached up to remove his hood. "You shouldn't have come, Sherlock. _You shouldn't have come."_

But Sherlock was already paralyzed as the visage came into view. It was scarred, almost melted looking with features disproportioned. But despite the horror before him, Sherlock's eyes processed the familiar slant of the nose, and the deprecating smirk on the twisted lips. And for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, Sherlock felt his entire universe go awry.

"You always were the slow one," The ruined face of Mycroft Holmes sneered. " _Brother dear."_

/

 **To be continued…**


	3. Harbinger of Hope

**A/N:**

 **Well, here we are, a solid two months and a half later than I promised. Though in my defense not only did life get in the way, but this chapter (which if you recall, was supposed to be half the size of the first two) decided to grow a mind of its own and ended up being nearly double the size of the others.**

 **And I still feel like I could've delved further into the story and characters.**

 **Retrospectively, thinking I could portray this story as a three-shot was spectacularly ignorant. And yet I did it. Typical.**

 **To be honest I'm still not completely happy with the final product, but I'm just so absolutely** _ **sick**_ **of staring at this story that you're getting it as it is, bumpy edges and all (And by all, I mean the usual wacky Force shenanigans I get up to).**

 **On a final note, thank you so much to everyone who has read this story and supported it with favourites and reviews – you guys really helped push me through my writer's block. This chapter is dedicated to you guys, as well as Emily with whom I thought up this plot-line already over a year ago.**

 **You are the best, and may the Force be with you.**

 **-AAG1D**

/

 _For there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so._

 _To me it is a prison. Well, then it isn't one to you,_

 _Since nothing is really good or bad in itself—it's all what a person thinks about it._

- _Hamlet,_ Shakespeare

/

Molly Hooper was a coward.

She supposed that it had all started that fateful day at the prime age of sixteen. She had been wandering the halls of the Academy, looking for something to do since Sherlock had made it clear that he had been planning on making an afternoon of studying. Not quite so academically inclined, Molly had opted to enjoy the lazy afternoon instead.

Unfortunately, that never happened.

For while sifting through relics and spare bits in the storage room to tinker with, something in the Force _tweaked._

Her hands had paused over the circuit board that she had been fiddling with, head cocking ever so slightly to the side as her body stiffened in alert.

It happened again.

It was almost as though something was _singing_ to her through the Force, and the pull that suddenly yanked in her chest stole her breath away and forced her to stand and ease the ache.

It was an old song, yet hauntingly familiar. All she had known was that she needed to find the source.

And find it she did.

As she had twisted and turned through the belly of the storage room, following the Force tug like an invisible guide, Molly suddenly found herself before a nondescript looking wall that she had likely passed hundreds of times in the past.

She had placed her hand upon it. The Force tweaked again.

The wall suddenly slid open.

She was no longer controlling her body, but was helpless as the Force controlled her, yearning her forward, reaching for the unknown.

There had been a single trunk, laying in the hidden, closet-sized space. The Force was screaming then, _begging_ her to step forward, open the trunk, and claim what was inside.

When she finally did, she immediately wished she hadn't.

Her fingers had brushed aside dark fabric, before curling around the sole object nestled within.

A child's wooden sword.

At first her confusion had nearly drowned her. Why would such an odd object be hidden from sight, let alone be calling out to her over the Force? It was burnt, as though it had barely survived a fire, and as she had turned the innocuous toy in her palms the charred wood had left dark markings on her pale flesh.

It was only as she looked at it through the Force that it all became startling clear. Because even though the object was imbued with darkness and the Force signature was different – aged with time – she would've recognized the Force signature anywhere.

 _The sword had once been Sherlock's._

But it didn't make sense – she had known that Sherlock had struggled with the darkness, _kriff,_ she had even helped battle several of his demons, but Sherlock was _good._ He had never used the dark side willingly, and on the contrary he was starting to wield the light side of the Force with a precision that rivalled even Master Lestrade's.

 _But…_

The voice from Sherlock's nightmares had come back to haunt her. _You know not of the power that lurks within him, little girl…_

She had been barely seven when Sherlock's nightmares had first started bleeding over into her own over the Force, before they had learned that her connection to the light could stop them from wreaking havoc in his mind.

She never did tell him that she had banished the monster from Sherlock's mind, by welcoming him into her own.

It had made sense at the time – her connection to the light side of the Force protected both of them, and the most that the creature of the darkness could do was leave insidious little thoughts in Molly's mind from time to time when she was on her own.

There was more than one reason why Molly had began risking her neck and a goodnight's sleep to spend the nights with Sherlock.

She would've – _she did_ – sacrifice everything to protect Sherlock.

The voice had left her alone a few months after she had barricaded it from Sherlock's mind, as it realized that she was too ardently _light_ to be affected by its silky words.

She never could forget their last confrontation though. And the last thought it had ever planted amongst her own.

 _You know not of the power that lurks within him, little girl…_

… _And by the time you do it will be too late._

She had sworn to herself that day to do everything in her power to protect her best friend, to protect the boy that she would grow to love.

But the words had still haunted her.

And at that moment, holding the charred toy in her hands, for the first time in nearly a decade she felt a shiver of the darkness once more, and could've sworn she heard an echo of a laugh.

The half-murmured truths that Sherlock had confided to her over the years started to swim at the forefront of her mind.

" _Where did you live, before coming here?"_

" _I… don't remember. There were trees. I remember walking with Myc and my parents through a forest… it doesn't really matter anymore though. Wanna see the new specimen I found the other day?"_

" _What happened to your family, Sherlock?"_

" _They died in a fire. I don't remember much of it – Master Lestrade says it's probably the trauma. It doesn't matter either way though. They're gone and I'm here. Let's talk about something else."_

" _Do you ever miss your family, Sherlock?"_

 _An exasperated sigh. "I honestly don't remember much about them. Besides, you're my family now."_

He had always brushed off her inquiries, and she hadn't really thought much of it up till then. Sure, she had thought it strange that he didn't seem to have very many memories with his family, despite being with them until he was seven. But she had always presumed that he suppressed them out of pain – after all, being the sole survivor of a ghastly fire at the age of seven was bound to do that to anybody.

But then, holding that sword, another, much more terrifying answer became clear. The toy was undoubtedly imbued with Sherlock's Force signature – as raw, uncontrolled, and dark as it might've been. The only way that it would've retained it for all those years would've been if Sherlock had channelled an inordinate amount of the dark side of the Force, and if he had only been a child it would've made sense that he'd have lost control and-

"Molly, I need you to put that down right now."

Master Lestrade's voice had been laced with desperation, but Molly had been too far gone to notice.

She had turned around slowly, eyes unseeing, tears streaming down her face.

"Is it true?" Her voice echoed in the all but empty room. "Did Sherlock kill his family?"

Master Lestrade didn't dare take another step forward. "How did you find this?" His eyes were wide. "You shouldn't have been able to-"

" _Is it true?"_ Her fingers curled around the burnt remains.

The tension suddenly drained from Master Lestrade's form, as the defeat finally settled in. "Yes Molly. It's true."

The confirmation had been a punch in the gut. Her Sherlock, who did his utmost to be light, his utmost to be _good-_

"Why doesn't he remember?" Molly had suddenly advanced until she was within spitting's distance. "What did you do to him?"

Master Lestrade had held his hands up in a placating gesture. "Calm down, Molly. It's complicated. Yes, Sherlock had used the dark side to start the fire that killed his family, but it had been an accident. He was too intertwined with the dark side to fully control it, to realise where it ended and he began. By the time that I had found him, he had retreated within himself, and the only way that I could coax him back out was by suppressing his memories of the incident."

"So, what?" It had taken nearly all of Molly's strength to ensure that she wasn't broadcasting her distress to Sherlock across their connection. "You lied to us? You've lied to _him_ for years without remorse?"

Something around Lestrade's eyes had hardened. "You know nothing of what you speak. Everything I've done, I've done to _protect_ Sherlock. He would've never made it to where he is today had I not suppressed his memories of the darkness."

"He deserves to know what happened," Molly narrowed her eyes. "You can't build his life on a lie!"

"I can and I did!" For the first time in her entire life at the Academy, Master Lestrade had lost control of his anger, exposing it raw for Molly to see. "And you will too."

Molly drew up short, fury flooding her veins at such a presumptuous declaration. "I will _never_ lie to Sherlock."

Lestrade stepped forward, his eyes darkening for a moment with something that terrified Molly's very core.

"You _will,_ Molly," His quiet words had been worse than his booming shout. "Because if he ever finds out that he killed his family, it'll be game over. We'd lose him for good to the darkness. So it's your choice. Tell him, and watch him spiral into grief and madness. Or don't, and pray that he may still have a chance for a normal life."

"You're wrong, he's stronger than you think," Molly tried to refute weakly.

"I'll leave the choice up to you," Master Lestrade's voice was cold. He had then proceeded to relieve her of the relic, before locking it away once more and shooing her away from the ghastly chamber.

 _Sherlock was stronger than that._

She couldn't keep such a lie from her best friend. It stood against everything they were, everything they had promised each other.

But at the same time…

Doubt had rooted itself in her mind. Perhaps it had always been there. Because there was still the question that Molly refused to ponder.

 _What if he wasn't?_

If Sherlock really did lose it, then she'd be losing more than just her friend. She had watched Sherlock struggle against the darkness for over a decade, had taken pride in his successes. He was her everything, and the thought of losing him or worse, the thought of him turning to the darkness once and for all, had sent something ugly twisting in her stomach.

 _You know not of the power that lurks within him…_

Could she risk it? _Should_ she risk it?

For it wasn't really a lie if she never brought it up in the first place, was it?

She had gnawed her lip for a long time, tears making unexpected appearances as she mentally went through her emotional spectrum while she mulled her options over.

She had to have faith.

For what were friends, if faith did not exist?

Determined, she had opened herself up to the Force for the first time since the incident. Not enough to broadcast her distress, but just enough to figure out where Sherlock had tucked himself away for the afternoon.

He had been under their favourite tree in the gardens.

Mind made up, she set a course to tell the truth.

But as each step drew her nearer, her resolve began to waver. The faith that supported her honesty crumbled under an image that Molly had tried to repress since her Gathering process nearly three years prior.

 _A figure in black. The crackle of crimson energy. Hatred and pain twisting the features she knew better than her own, as Sherlock Holmes died by her hand._

Her greatest fear was Sherlock succumbing to the dark side.

Did she really want to risk it?

She couldn't. She _wouldn't._

By the time that Molly had found him, laying unawares under the shade of the broad oak, his nose buried in a book, any resolve that Molly had built had fled, leaving her with nothing more than fear to motivate her actions.

She had sat heavily on his back without a word, vowing to never tell him.

In that moment she first became a coward.

And ever since she had done nothing but run away from her problems. Perhaps that was why she was struggling so much, now that she had no other option than to face her problems head on.

She held her breath as she watched Sherlock come to terms with one of the horrible truths that she had kept to herself.

"Myc?"

The whisper was vulnerable, and not unfamiliar to Molly. More than once growing up she would awaken to Sherlock tossing in the night, his cries for his elder brother muted by the pillow.

Now said elder brother was grinning menacingly at the younger who was on the brink of confusion. She could _feel_ Sherlock's panic as his eyes told him what he knew should be impossible, and not for the first time Molly Hooper wished that she had told him before he came; warned him of what he would find.

But she didn't.

Because she was no longer Molly Hooper.

A million questions curdled in her mouth, a thousand scenarios frightened her mind's eye. Sherlock should not have come, and the Supreme Leader would undoubtedly make him pay for his folly.

Molly's intervention would only make it worse.

And so, like a coward, she stepped back from the conflict and said nothing.

"You're dead," Sherlock finally managed to voice, looking as though he was struggling with an internal battle. "You can't be real."

" _Wrong."_ The word hissed through disfigured flesh. "I _live._ " Even though Molly was standing behind the Supreme Leader, she was aware of the crooked smile curling onto his features. "No thanks, in part, to you."

And then Molly was filling with panic, because Sherlock _could not_ learn of his fault in his family's death, not right now, not when he was already struggling with the knowledge that his big brother, his saviour, his _hero_ was not only alive, but also had become the embodiment of everything Sherlock had ever fought against.

The literal monster that had haunted his childhood dreams.

"Unfortunately," The Supreme Leader continued, "You are no longer useful to me. So I'll thank you for not impeding me in the future," Another smirk. "Brother dear."

Before Sherlock could so much as release the breath that he was holding, Mycroft waved a hand and used the dark side of the Force to invade Sherlock's mind. In the next moment Sherlock was unconscious, his lanky body falling to the floor.

Molly started forward, and barely managed to stop herself before the Supreme Leader turned around. It mattered not though – for she knew that he'd already seen her intentions, _her worry,_ through the Force.

 _Send him away,_ The silky voice flooded her senses – she was aware that he preferred this method of communication over the traditional way due to the physical damage he now carried. _And then return. It seems you need a refresher on your training,_ Kylo Ren.

For half a beat Molly despaired, knowing what training the Supreme Leader had on his mind. But she masked any feelings she might've had on the matter immediately, knowing it to be futile to protest or show any inkling of fear.

Besides, she was just grateful that the Supreme Leader had opted to let Sherlock live, rather than striking him down where he stood.

Using the Force, Molly stepped expressionlessly forward, raising Sherlock's limp body and moving it along the corridor a few feet behind her. She didn't look back, knowing that she would be seeing more than her fair share of the throne room once her task was complete.

Per usual, people parted before her in fear. Though there was an undercurrent, a whisper that followed in her wake. Without her mask her gender was exposed for all to see – no doubt a surprise for nearly all, as she had never bothered to correct the assumption that Kylo Ren was male.

Despite their shock, however, the rats at the bottom of the pecking order still scrambled out of her way, still all too aware of the power Kylo Ren held at her finger tips. It also probably didn't help that she had an unconscious body floating behind her. By the time they made it to the hangar there was a restlessness floating around the ship. An acknowledgement of sorts.

Molly locked Sherlock's unconscious form into the pilot's seat of his vessel, and ensured that the coordinates were set to the previous destination without making a note of said destination in her own consciousness. The least she could do was protect this one small area of Sherlock's life. See to it that the Supreme Leader left this one thing alone.

Then again, if he had been in Sherlock's mind already, he very well may already know the location of the Resistance. Molly could only hope that they would be gone by the time that the First Order arrived.

She cast one last glance down at Sherlock's form. She could've kissed him, or caressed his cheek. He wouldn't have known any better.

Instead, Molly deftly shut the hatch, turned the ship on with the Force, and cleared the launch zone, heading back towards the throne room.

As the ship finally took off carrying with it the man she had once loved, Kylo Ren did not look back.

/

Sherlock awoke to confused shouting.

He was _really_ getting tired of that.

"What-" He blinked twice as he sat up, the light that was streaming between the multiple figures above him harsher than usual.

"About bloody time," John's gruff mutter was easy enough to recognize. "What the _kriff_ were you thinking?"

"John?" The confirmation was distorted as Sherlock rubbed his face with the palm of his hand. "Where am I?"

"D'Qar base, of course," The ex-Stormtrooper was still flitting nervously around the scavenger, as though uncertain he wouldn't disappear if he took his eyes off of him. "Though not for long. After your little stunt Lady Smallwood decided to move base. The last of us are heading to Crait in an hour – you are _so_ lucky that you didn't arrive any later than you did."

"Crait," Sherlock muttered, eyes glancing around the X-wing he was sitting in.

Suddenly, it all came back.

" _John,"_ Sherlock lowered his voice, but the seriousness of his tone enraptured John's attention anyways. "My brother is the Supreme Leader."

John blinked. "What?"

Sherlock ignored him, steamrolling now that his memories were coming back in order. "I thought he was _dead. He's_ the one that has something on Molly. She, she…" Sherlock trailed off as he remembered that she had done nothing and yet known all along about the truth. For the first time in his entire relationship with Molly, he felt a stab of betrayal that he knew would never truly go away.

She had _known_ how important his brother had once been to him.

And yet she had kept his survival a secret. Though that said, Sherlock still wasn't too sure what to think of his brother's new status.

"We have a lot to discuss," Sherlock glanced at John. "I'll tell you on the flight to Crait."

/

" _I didn't even know you_ had _a brother!"_

" _Well, I didn't up until a few hours ago apparently. I thought he had died when I was a child, but instead he became the Supreme Leader of the First Order and uses the dark side of the Force to terrify and control people."_

"Kriff, _and I thought_ my _history was shoddy."_

" _You have_ no _idea."_

/

There were moments when Sherlock sometimes yearned for the solitude of Jakku.

Despite the fact that the majority of his memories there had been fabricated, his time had been generally unpleasant, and the circumstances had not been ideal, there had been moments on Jakku that he missed.

His life had been simple, even if it hadn't truly been his to live.

And despite the loneliness, the yearning, and the questions, there had been fragments that had acted as a balm of sorts. Memories of traversing the cooling sand by the light of the double moons, inspecting the inside hull of long abandoned ships, smiling at the stars as they twinkled inconspicuously overhead.

Sherlock Holmes led a life with people he cared for, but it was a chaotic life pestered with moments that were so achingly dark that they seemed bottomless, and flashes of light so brilliant that they blinded him.

Sherlock of Jakku, on the other hand, lived in solitude. But he was privy to a peace that Sherlock Holmes could only dream of.

Sighing something heavy, Sherlock all but collapsed on the bed in his newly designated quarters, exhausted past any reasonably healthy point. After explaining the… situation to John and Mary during the trip to the new Resistance Base, he had been all but accosted upon arrival by Lady Smallwood and her flock of followers, demanding answers for his actions.

He didn't give them a straight response, much to the everlasting annoyance of several of their generals.

It merely took a simple reminder that he was not Resistance and rather was offering his help out of the goodness of his heart so they better _leave him be_ that finally got them off his back.

They informed him that with the sudden change of plans the search party for Lestrade would leave the following day. He had said nothing and merely demanded a room until then.

Now, away from prying eyes and concerned questions, Sherlock finally felt his façade crack, and the pieces that he had been holding so carefully in place crumble into dust.

He was tired.

 _He felt old._

He simply didn't know what to do next.

Finding Lestrade was definitely going to be his priority now. Despite any reservations he held against the older Jedi, Sherlock was also painfully aware that he was the only person who might've had answers.

And answers were sorely needed at the moment.

As he closed his eyes, Sherlock did his utmost to reflect on what he did and didn't know. He had always believed what Lestrade had told him about his family having died in a freak fire, but his own memories of the incident were blurry at best. In fact, his memories of his time before arriving at the Academy were practically non-existent.

He could recall the faces of his family, could feel the ache in his chest from where he knew he had once loved them, but other than that his mind was eerily silent. Search as he might, it was as though he was peering through fog and was unable to discern anything of significance.

Lestrade had once told him that trauma could suppress memories.

Now, Sherlock wasn't so sure. Not after being a first-hand victim of memory alteration.

His stomach rolled unpleasantly at the thought. Alas, it was another thing that only Lestrade himself would be able to confirm or deny which gave Sherlock all the more reason to find him as soon as possible.

Sherlock let out a sigh, turning onto his left side and yanking the blanket up over his shoulder-

-Only to feel another's back suddenly align with his.

He stiffened, spine arching slightly at the contact, breath catching in his throat, but other wise making no suggestion of notice. He was vaguely aware of the person parallel to him mimicking his motions, before the most suffocating silence he had ever experienced descended between them.

He was _determined_ not to be the one to move first.

As the awkward silence enveloped them, Sherlock's mind was racing in a million directions all at once. It noted the change of soft satin sheets wrapping them together, rather than the threadbare linen ones that outfitted the bunks on Crait. It catalogued the abrupt change in temperature, as he had to fight the urge to snuggle deeper into the warmth of the bed, in order to avoid the brisk temperatures of space.

It delved into the Force and outlined with startling clarity the one he was attempting to ignore.

Emotion after emotion barraged Sherlock's senses. The usual longing that he felt when he thought of Molly. The rush of red anger at the reminder of their situation. The undercurrent of sadness when he thought of all they never were.

And now, a stab of pain, as he realized that the one person that he had thought he could always trust had lied to him.

For the first time since he was a child, Sherlock found himself unable to breath under the weight of it all.

And for the first time in his _life,_ Molly Hooper's presence wasn't helping.

He was in no state of mind to be dealing with any of it, and _by the Force_ he had just wanted a few hours to rest after all he had been through. Was that too much to ask? Just a few hours of blessed, uninterrupted sleep.

As usual, Sherlock found himself cursing the active role that the Force played in his life.

So caught up in his thoughts, Sherlock didn't even notice Molly's slight inhale of breath. It wasn't until her rush of words registered that Sherlock realized that he had won their unspoken stand-off.

"I told you not to come."

Or perhaps he hadn't.

Hyperaware of her presence, Sherlock continued to maintain his silence.

"You should've listened to me."

The slightest twitch in his cheek, before his mouth mutinied against his mind. The hiss was deadly in the night air. "Listen to what? More of your lies?"

"I never lied."

"Omitting the truth is as good as lying," Sherlock found himself glaring hard at the slick wall of her quarters. Then, his posture softened for half a second. "We used to tell each other everything."

A slight shudder through the bedframe. Sherlock realized that Molly was suppressing a sob. It was another moment before she responded.

"We were different people then."

Sherlock fought the knot building in his own throat. And it was in that moment that Sherlock Holmes truly realized the extent of the things that they had lost.

"Better people," His whisper was all but lost between the two souls who ached for each other. "We were better people then."

Molly never responded.

They sat in quiet agony until the Force finally relented and Sherlock found himself returned to his own quarters, the ache never disappearing, and the phantom of the past still resting against his back.

/

Destiny could be a funny thing.

Some people felt that it was set in stone, that once a future was determined it couldn't be changed. Others felt that while the future wasn't exact, the fundamental attributes of a person would always result in them making the same choices, leading to an inevitable destiny.

Sherlock thought that destiny was garbage.

And that the Force was too.

He remembered waking up to ash. Pain had coursed through his brittle flesh that had been all the wrong colours in all the wrong places, and his lungs had seized at the filthy air around him. He had tried calling for help, for his parents, for _Myc,_ but his body couldn't take the sudden movement, and instead he found himself curling up in the ash and soot, sobbing silently as the world passed on in silence.

That was how Lestrade had found him. Broken, and helpless, and covered head to toe in fiercely angry burns and black, black ash.

If he had believed in destiny, he might've even said that the state in which Lestrade had found him in had foreshadowed that which he would become.

Destiny was bantha fodder though, so Sherlock dismissed the thought.

For a while, though, it was near impossible to believe otherwise. The darkness had simply been so all encompassing that Sherlock struggled to keep afloat. The other Masters and students had been rightly terrified of him, and more than once Sherlock had overheard stray thoughts throughout the Force, wondering when he would be lost to the darkness for good.

For a while, Sherlock had felt that he had no other option other than to forever be entrenched in the darkness. He was a monster, an abomination, _a sithspawn,_ and he had lost any hope he might've once harboured.

After all, when everyone else fears the darkness within you, it hardly seems polite to disagree.

Then, he had met Molly and everything changed.

For the first time in his life, he had felt like he could be _good._ That perhaps he wasn't destined for a future drowning in darkness.

His mistake, however, was in thinking that he could learn to swim.

For although he tried, the darkness never left. And although he went through the motions, he never truly could be a Jedi.

After all, he had all but thrown himself at the darkness in order to save Molly.

Now, as he traversed the uneven ground with the bitter breeze threatening to blow his hood off, Sherlock still didn't give destiny any credit. After all, what had it done for him? But he did have to admit that if it _did_ exist it clearly had an ironic sense of humour.

Why else would Sherlock be on his way to find the one person who had betrayed him when it was most important? The one person who could hopefully save the galaxy and answer some very pressing questions. The one person who had found _him_ over twenty years prior.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes didn't believe in destiny.

But destiny believed in him.

And that was why he was always meant for the darkness.

Because destiny knew that he could also be _more._

/

The rustle of wind through grass. The distant sound of waves crashing against rock.

The back of a figure, not twenty feet away.

Sherlock Holmes removed his hood, squinting at the harsh light that was peaking through the clouds on Ach-To. It was nothing compared to the Jakku sun, but after spending time in the vast darkness of space his eyes were still straining at the onslaught. He could feel absolutely nothing through the Force concerning the figure, but he knew without a doubt that it was who he was looking for.

His breath caught in his throat as the other man finally registered his presence and turned around.

Only Sherlock's staff which was planted firmly in the ground – and which he had brought along more for familiarity than necessity – stopped him from taking a step back in surprise.

While Sherlock had thought that his own appearance had changed in the time apart, Lestrade was barely recognizable. The years had not been kind to the legendary Jedi Master, and the man who peered out blankly at Sherlock from cracked eyes was the epitome of everything that Sherlock had never thought that Lestrade could be.

His shoulders were hunched, as though in a permanent state of despair, his hair had grown scruffy, and he now had an unruly beard to tie the look together. As the wind whipped his black robes around what was evidently a too-frail body, Sherlock felt a pang of despair cut through the anger simmering in his chest, as he realized that only a shadow of Lestrade's former self was left.

If Lestrade was surprised to see Sherlock standing before him in his beige scavenger outfit, staff held firmly in his grip, brown cloak billowing in the wind, it did not show on his face.

Rather, the old man merely raised an eyebrow, his voice the only familiar part of his presence.

"I was wondering when you'd come to kill me."

/

Greg Lestrade was tired.

When others thought of him, that was never the word they would use. To them, he was always strong and brave and fearless. _Master_ Lestrade. The greatest Jedi to walk the galaxy. The hero of the Republic, who single-handedly brought the Empire to its knees.

And at one time, that had been true.

But that was many years ago.

And he was now a very, _very_ different man. A man whose sins were now heavier than any heroic deed or grand title he might've had in the past. A man embittered by his failures, ashamed of the blood on his hands.

A man with nothing more to live for.

He was old and weary, and _relieved_ when the person he had wronged most finally came to end him. Dying was the only reprieve he could imagine finding from the ghosts and echoes of failure that haunted his daily life, and he was all but ready to have his life taken by the one whom he had once considered as a son.

It was poetically fitting, in a dark, twisted sort of way. The boy that he had rescued, the boy that he had loved, the boy that he had condemned to darkness.

That boy was now a man, eyeing Lestrade warily on the cliffs of Ach-To. He didn't so much as flinch at Lestrade's abrupt statement. Rather, his eyes raked over Lestrade's form in the analytical manner that had always been a tad startling, his posture rigid against the wind.

"Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not here to kill you." _Yet._ The unsaid word hung heavily in the air. Lestrade didn't need to be tapped into the Force to understand the fury rolling behind Sherlock's cool gray gaze. The baritone of his voice was familiar, although the warm edges that Lestrade recalled from his memory were long gone.

Despite Sherlock's off-putting demeanor, something within Lestrade's dead gaze was sparked. "Then why are you here?"

Sherlock had _always_ found extreme displeasure in nearly everything. It was one of the reasons Lestrade had been so concerned about the boy when he was younger. He was always so quick to anger, personally offended by nearly everyone and everything.

The expression on his face now was reminiscent of those days long past.

Face screwed up as though he had been forced to swallow a lemon whole, eyes blazing righteous fury, and nose haughtily held high, Sherlock spat: "Because we _need_ you."

Lestrade almost cracked a smile at the way Sherlock treated the simple sentence as though it was something filthy in his mouth.

Almost.

Instead he raised his other eyebrow and decided to prod the beast. "Do you?"

It had the desired effect. Within a blink of an eye Sherlock's composed (and slightly unnerving) comportment dropped away, unleashing the snarling, hurt child that Lestrade was expecting. One moment Sherlock was carefully away, and the next he was towering over Lestrade's hunched frame, eyes raging.

The right hook to his left cheek was hardly surprising.

What _was_ surprising, however, was the way that all of Sherlock's anger seemed to drain away with the punch, and he stepped back as quickly as he had dashed forward, composure falling on his shoulders once more like a cloak in which he sought refuge.

The pain that dashed through the left side of Lestrade's face was wretched, and his head had snapped to the side with a sickening _crick!_ It took a moment for his vision to focus, and already he could feel the tell-tale sting of the swelling start. He threw his gaze back up to Sherlock warily.

"I deserved that."

"You deserve _much more_ than that."

Suddenly feeling all of his sixty-seven years, Lestrade let out a weary sigh. "I do."

For a split second Lestrade watched as Sherlock fought to maintain his composure, nearly losing to his desire to go off at his former Master once more. At the last second, though, he merely opted for tightening his grip on the strange staff that he kept by his side.

"The Resistance needs you. The First Order have become a threat that they can no longer contain and your… assistance is now necessary," Sherlock stated the words monotonously, as though they were mere facts that he had memorized. "You _will_ come because Molly Hooper is Kylo Ren and _my brother_ is the Supreme Leader so I believe that you owe it to the galaxy to fix the mess that your colossal screw-up created."

Lestrade could tell that Sherlock badly – _so_ badly – wanted to add on several more insults and derogatory comments. Yet something held him back. Likely the same something that caught Lestrade's attention and made his heart stutter in his chest. "Your brother?"

Even as a child, Sherlock had had an uncanny ability to zero his attention in on things, to the point where one's skin would crawl. Now, said attention was focused on Lestrade – who also couldn't miss the undercurrent of utter _loathing_ that went along with it.

"Yes, my _brother._ You know, the one that you had told me _died."_

Lestrade was flabbergasted. "That's not possible. He _is_ dead. I saw his corpse myself before I found you."

"Well you're wrong," There was definitely a hint of petulance in Sherlock's tone, bringing back a blur of memories to Lestrade. "He was very much alive yesterday when I confronted him, no thanks to you."

And then Sherlock spun on his heel and was gone.

Leaving Lestrade with a throbbing cheek and one hell of a headache.

/

John Watson tended not to question things in life. Being raised as a Stormtrooper had had that affect – he was taught to shoot first and ask questions later, and often when he did ask questions he was punished for them.

Not exactly the best of memories.

On one hand, such an instinct had kept him alive for the better part of his life, and especially in recent days. His lack of questions had convinced him that Sherlock was a safe alternative as a travel companion, allowing an odd sort of friendship to form that helped the older man deal with the younger's shenanigans. Likewise, his lack of questions had allowed him to break Mary out of prison, and finally escape the First Order.

On the other hand, his lack of questioning things often ended up with him being the one in the dark. Hence why he was stuck with Mary on the YT-1300 while Sherlock went off gallivanting for Jedi Master Lestrade.

He really couldn't hold his curiosity back any longer though, when Sherlock returned a half an hour later, the knuckles on his right hand swollen and bruised. Especially when a battered figure shuffling into view a few minutes later, face a most vicious purply-red around his left cheekbone.

"What happened?" John found himself gaping.

Sherlock didn't halt as he stormed by him and up the ramp of the ship. "I found Lestrade."

"No sithspit, Sherlock," John tried not to roll his eyes, turning on his heel to follow his friend up the ramp of the ship, and lowering his voice so that it didn't carry over to where the other figure was slowly drawing nearer. "Did you _punch_ a Jedi Master?!"

"I'd hardly call him a Master," Sherlock merely grumbled. "But yes. We'll be spending the night. There are local huts up around the knoll. I need to get information out of him that's too sensitive to wait or risk. Plus, I need to figure out why he exiled himself _here_ of all places," Per usual, Sherlock's tirade had some how turned into some sort or personal muttering. "There must be something I'm missing. And how could he not have known?"

Ignoring his friend's odd behaviour, John just answered with a cheery: "So I'll let Mary know to unpack the supplies then?" Which of course was neglected as Sherlock spun off into the bowels of the ship, intent on doing who knew what.

Sighing to himself, John turned to trudge back down the ramp. Just in time to come face to face with the Jedi Master himself.

John had to wince when he spotted the ugly mark up close – Sherlock certainly knew how to swing a punch. Even without the bruise, however, the older man looked to be worse for wear. His gray hair was as askew as his beard, and even with the swelling John could tell that his skin was pulled too taunt over his bones, his eyes too dead for someone who was alive. Something rolled in John's gut at the absent stare.

"We should probably get that looked at," He gestured vaguely to the other man's face.

To his surprise, he was met by the shake of a head. "Don't bother."

Despite the sound of the waves beating the rocks, the wind tussling their clothes, and the distinct sound of some form of life flying overhead, John was acutely aware of the awkward silence that fell between them at the Jedi's curt dismissal.

The Jedi seemed to notice it too.

His eyes widened fractionally even as he let out a ragged breath. "You'll have to excuse my manners – they're the first thing that the solitude takes."

John just offered the strange man a tight smile. "No harm done. I'm John Watson."

"Greg." It was bizarre, associating the presence of a heroic legend with something as common place as a first name. "Are you with the Resistance?"

Deciding it prudent _not_ to delve into his short history that had become exceedingly complicated all of forty-eight hours ago, John just sniffed, his eyes darting out to the bleak landscape behind them. "Something like that. Sherlock said something about huts that we can stay in?"

The next few hours passed in a blur, John and Mary unloading supplies while Sherlock muttered to himself and didn't bother helping. At some point Lestrade disappeared, and Sherlock followed soon after. As the sun began to set low on the horizon, John wiped at his brow.

"I think that's the last of it," Mary's voice rang out as she tromped down the ship's ramp, Redbeard hot on her heels. "We might as well head up with the last little bit of day light."

John agreed, turning to walk up the familiar rocky path.

A beat of silence past. Then Mary let out a small huff of air. "So, I never got to ask with all the chaos that has gone on, but what's your story, 'Trooper?"

John's footing almost gave out from under him and he gave an awkward laugh, his heart stuttering in his throat. "Trooper? What do you mean by that?"

Even in the dimming light, John could clearly make out the amusement on Mary's features. "You're not as smooth as you think," She let out a soft laugh. "I figured it out pretty quick."

At that John felt a rush of heat fill his cheeks, and he specifically focused on walking. "Yes, well. That's basically it then, I guess. Ex-Stormtrooper gone rogue. Nothing too exciting there."

He could almost _hear_ the raised eyebrow. "I wouldn't exactly say that."

Uncomfortable as he always was when people brought up his past, John decided to side-step the not-inquiry. "How about you? How'd you become a pilot for the Resistance?"

He sensed that Mary knew that he was diverting the subject, and yet let him get away with it anyways.

"Not much to tell, to be honest. My folks died when I was young and I got taken in by my Aunt. She was an admiral for the New Republic and a personal friend of Lady Smallwood's. When Smallwood formed the Resistance several years ago, it was just natural for me to join."

"So you don't have a political standing in this war?" John found himself asking.

Mary shrugged. "If you're asking whether I support the First Order or the Resistance as governor of the galaxy, I suppose the answer would be neither. They both have good aspects, and they both have bad."

John felt himself sputtering. "The First Order is a tyrannist regime who _murder_ those who get in their way! What good could you possibly see in them?"

The breeze was cool as it blew between them. "I'm not saying that their methods aren't wrong," Her voice was slightly prickly, as though she couldn't believe that she had to explain it to John. "But their principles have merit."

A flash of anger surfaced for John. "Well if you support their ideals so much why would you withhold Resistance information under torture?"

Mary let out a long-suffering sigh. "Because just because they have merit, does _not_ mean that they are right. I believe that we are who we make ourselves to be, and that we have that _right_ to choose to do so. That is why I fight for the Resistance. Not because I support their political views, but because I support what they embody. They are hope. They are choice. They are _freedom._ And that's something that we all need in our lives."

As Mary finished her rant, they reached the top of the knoll, just as the last rays of sun were winking behind the lapping waves of the horizon. John found his breath stolen from him, and not just because of the hike.

He thought of his childhood, ripped from his grasp. He thought of the years upon years of training and conditioning. And finally, he thought of Sherlock's confession about his time on Jakku, and how utterly wretched it had been.

And he found himself replying with the only thought he could form.

"Hope is not enough."

Mary's look was scathing.

"It is if you believe it to be."

/

Dinner, to say, was awkward.

Lestrade spent the majority of it staring into his stew bowl, as though it held the answers to the universe and would relent at the continuous glare. John had _tried_ to talk to Mary, but in the tense atmosphere almost all his jokes fell flat, and no matter how hard they laughed it felt like they were interrupting the silence rather than the other way around.

Sherlock glared at Lestrade. Hard.

He could tell that John was rather off-put by his rude actions. After all, staring for an unabsorbent amount of time was considered rude by all standards, not to add to the fact that Sherlock was glaring at _the_ Jedi Master of the Galaxy.

To say that it cast a mood on things was an understatement.

Sherlock didn't care though. He hardly cared about anything anymore.

It was only when Lestrade had finally cleaned the last bit of porg from his bowl, that John finally dared to break the suffocating silence.

"So," He started off unsure, addressing someone other than Mary for the first time during the evening. "You're Master Lestrade, huh?"

Sherlock let out a loud snort before the older man could reply. "Unfortunately," His scoff echoed in the silence. Lestrade, for his part, ignored the younger man's petulance and continued staring aimlessly into the fire, his fingers fiddling with his empty stew bowl.

"I used to be," His face stretched gruesomely over his swelling cheek in the firelight, and John fought a wince.

Mary beat him to the punch line. "What happened?"

"I made a mistake," Lestrade's sigh was like the creak of an aging forest. "I had thought – I had _feared_ – the darkness too much. And I had let that fear drive me forward, allowed it to influence my decisions. And because of that, I created the one thing I had always dreaded. I created Kylo Ren."

John felt his skin prickle in the breeze as the last of Lestrade's words settled around their shoulders like an itchy blanket. It was difficult to see someone he had once revered as a hero as broken as the man before him. Master Lestrade was someone he had associated with whispered stories of hope, stolen tales of legends.

To see that hero, that hope, that legend weighed down by his mistakes and haunted by his errors sent a shiver of fear up John's spine.

For in the fading firelight, John came to the terrifying realization that Greg Lestrade was in reality just a man.

And since that was the case, if there were no heroes, what hope did they have of winning?

What hope was there for a future?

John's musings were cut off by the clattering sound of Sherlock throwing his stew bowl to the ground in a huff, before stalking out of the camp, affording one last glare in Lestrade's direction before he pulled his hood up over his angry features and vanished into the darkness.

"Sherlock-" John let out a huff as he stood up himself, but was surprisingly cut off by Master Lestrade's voice.

"Leave him be," The tone was weary. "He needs to be alone."

"No," John found himself rounding on Lestrade, his own voice full of more bitterness than he expected. "He needs a friend."

And with that John stalked off into the darkness after the Scrapper from Jakku.

/

Sherlock Holmes was angry.

But more than that: He was _furious._

How _dare_ Lestrade act as though the past pained him so greatly. _He_ was the one who ruined Sherlock's life. He was the one who had _betrayed_ him and ruthlessly teared apart the family that he had built up for the sake of his ideals, in the name of the Light and the Jedi.

And now Lestrade had the audacity to act as though his own life was ruined as well.

Somewhere deep within Sherlock's mind, he was aware that he was being irrational. _Emotional._ Despite his errors and shortcomings, Lestrade had been a good person. It was logical to expect him to have recognized his mistakes and feel regret over them.

But that didn't make Sherlock's anger any less potent.

For the first time in six years, Sherlock felt the Force curl dangerously within his veins. It wasn't like the darkness that had haunted him as a child, but there was an undeniable undercurrent of danger lurking at his fingertips as the air rippled with _something._

He flicked his lightsaber on, tired of always keeping himself in check, of tucking things away to cool down.

His scream ripped through the silence as the crackle of his blue blade caused a shower of sparks and a splattering of wood to disturb the peace of the island. He viciously attacked the tree, over and over and over again, upswing, then arced slash, then violent hack, again and again and again.

The turbulence in the Force moved with his emotions, never quite defining itself with darkness or light, but rather manipulating itself into the energy that Sherlock used to expel his frustration. He slashed and screamed and _cried_ until the breath left his lungs and the strength left his limbs.

An indeterminable amount of time later, he fell to his knees in the dirt, the sent of charred wood and ash cloying his nose and burning his eyes, heaves trying and failing to rack his chest. His lightsaber tumbled a ways away from his hand and extinguished, leaving him bathed in nothing but the faint light of the moon and the dull embers of the still burning tree remains.

He was aware of the footsteps coming up behind him, but couldn't bring himself to care, even as the other person settled down beside him and placed a wary hand on his shoulder, unsure of what to say, and unaware that just his mere presence was enough.

The silence stretched between them as Sherlock got control of his breathing once more, the comforting presence beside him never wavering.

"He was my father," Sherlock finally found himself admitting once the blurred image of the world came slightly back into focus, and his lungs were no longer screaming for air. "Perhaps not biologically, nor in the traditional sense, but he still was in all the ways that mattered."

John remained silent beside him, giving Sherlock the quiet support that he needed to continue on.

"He was the one who found me, in the ash and terror. He was the one who took me in, who held me when the darkness was too much. Everyone else always shied away but he was _always_ there. He had been the father I could never have, and then he, he-"

Sherlock shuddered under another urge of sobs, disgusted at his own inarticulation but helpless to do anything against it. John didn't seem to hold it against him though, rather tightening his grip on his shoulder in reassurance.

"And then he didn't _believe_ in me anymore."

And that's what it all came down to.

For years Sherlock had thought that he couldn't withstand the darkness, that he was destined to succumb to the horrors of it. There had been moments when he had lost all faith in himself.

But Lestrade never had.

He had believed in Sherlock even when Sherlock hadn't. It had been Lestrade's faith in Sherlock's ability of goodness that originally got Sherlock through his first years at the Academy, and in the subsequent years had been the pillar of support that Sherlock had known he could always rely on. Even when Molly had become the first and foremost focus of his life, Sherlock always knew that Lestrade was there, silently supporting and believing in him.

That ended the night that Lestrade had tried to separate Molly from Sherlock, had tried to keep Sherlock from the darkness by his own means.

For in that moment Sherlock had realized a wretched truth.

Lestrade _didn't_ believe in Sherlock as he had always claimed to, and his attempt to take matters into his own hands was proof enough of that. When push had come to shove, Lestrade hadn't had faith in Sherlock's ability to remain with the light.

And _that_ was what had hurt the most. Finding out that the one man that he had trusted more than a father had in reality not trusted him at all.

He felt John's fingers curl into the fabric of his cloak and he didn't have to look to know that John was staring out onto the horizon, trying to get his anger under control.

Sherlock felt something uncurl slightly in his chest. It was a hauntingly familiar feeling, though something that he hadn't been privy to since he and Molly were first becoming friends.

He had almost forgotten what it felt like to realize that he wasn't alone. That there was someone out there who cared for him. Who was his _friend._

"Sherlock," John's voice was thick with emotion, but for his part the ex-Stormtrooper did a fine job of carrying on as though everything was normal. "I am sorry. You didn't deserve to go through that. Hell, you didn't deserve to go through any of what you've experienced and I can't even imagine what it must be like for you right now. But know this, Sherlock: I know that we haven't known each other for very long, and that we got more sidled together by circumstance than voluntary will, but you're my friend, Sherlock. And no matter what you decide from here on out, I will support you fully. And I can't speak for Mary, but I believe that she will too."

His voice was a croak. "But you don't even know me."

John's didn't miss a beat. "I know you enough."

"You'll probably get killed by sticking around."

The slightest of chuckles. "Are you trying to deter me?"

For the first time in a long time, the coil that had been so tightly wrapped in Sherlock's chest relaxed, and he let out a small laugh of his own.

"God no," He felt the Force settle in his veins, as he mentally moved John and Mary up underneath Molly's name on his list of those he trusted. "I'm trying to recruit you."

/

By the time Sherlock had stalked back to the fire, the crackling orange flames had subdued into the occasional red tongue that lapped over the glowing embers. Mary had already retired to a hut to rest, and John was quick to follow her after casting Sherlock one more wary glance.

Sherlock had waved off his concern with a face before settling heavy onto the stone opposite Lestrade.

He waited until the dense clomping of John's footsteps vanished before he took a deep breath and finally faced the man whom he had once called Master.

Lestrade was already looking at him curiously.

Sherlock's features hardened.

"I need to know exactly what happened the day you found me," His tone was clipped and concise, leaving no room for argument.

The breath that Lestrade let out was heavy. "There's not much to tell. Myself and a few of the other Masters had been on a Peace mission on the outer rim when I felt a flare in the Force. I now know that it had been you projecting your distress. We pinpointed your location and came as quick as we could, but by the time that we arrived…"

Lestrade trailed off into his memories. Sherlock fought a growl of annoyance. "By the time that you arrived?" He prompted none too subtly.

Another sigh from Lestrade, this time as he rubbed an exhausted hand over the uninjured side of his face. "By the time that we arrived the entire planet was nothing more than ash and embers. I've never seen anything like it. The skies were gray and thick with smoke, and there was not a single living thing left alive.

"Except for you."

Sherlock felt his brows furrow. He remembered the ash and the acrid smell of smoke of course. Lestrade had told him that a fire had burnt the family home. But the entire planet?

"What caused the fire?" His question was less sharpened by bitterness, and more laced with intrigue now.

But Lestrade merely shook his head, eyes still unseeing. "We don't know. But whatever had happened had clearly happened a good day before we had arrived, as there were just the remains of the carnage left. We searched the planet for hours through the Force, but there wasn't a single sign of life. It wasn't until we were preparing to leave that I felt it again – that I felt _you_ again."

"Everyone was dead?"

"Everyone. Thousands upon thousands of corpses. Except for you. I found you in the remains of some sort of mansion or something a ways away from the rest of civilization. I stumbled across four charred human corpses and one animal's before I found you barely alive beneath the rubble."

Sherlock's attention flicked up. "Four human?"

"Yes," Lestrade's words were coming slowly now, as though he desired nothing more than to keep them locked within his mouth. "A man and a woman's – your parents, I reckoned, and two children. A teenaged boy's, and a little girl's. You were in the same vicinity as them."

 _Something_ tugged from the dark recesses of Sherlock's memory, but try as he might it wouldn't form itself into a thought. He felt his nose crinkling and his brow wrinkling as his train of thought started racing at the speed of light.

"The boy was obviously Myc-roft" He jolted slightly as his tongue stumbled over his brother's name. In his memories he was Myc, but evidently his memories were not reliable. If his brother really had become the Supreme Leader, then he was no longer the boy from Sherlock's childhood. He was no longer his brother Myc. "Who was the girl? I have no recollection of her."

Lestrade shrugged. "Who knows? A friend? A relative? Your sister? It's all speculation. You were all too burnt to look for a family resemblance. But we always presumed that they had been your family."

"And you were certain they were dead?"

This time the older man rolled his eyes slightly. " _Positive._ Their corpses were stone cold. There was not even a flicker of life on the Force. There was no way that your brother survived, let alone became the Supreme Leader."

"Well you're mistaken on that account," Sherlock didn't care if he sounded petulant. "He's very much alive, and very much strong with the dark side of the Force."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Sherlock watched as Lestrade slouched even further, muttering about the lack of possibility to himself. Sherlock found his own mind snapping onto a different, unbelievable part of the tale however.

"A sister," The foreign word was ill-fitting on Sherlock's tongue, and he frowned at the feel of it. "Why can't I remember her?"

A non-committal noise from Lestrade as he continued gazing into the slowly dying fire. "I don't know, Sherlock. That was only my speculation, remember. For all I know you might've just met her that day."

"It still doesn't make sense," Sherlock felt himself becoming antsy. "I was _seven._ I should be able to remember more than three faces and the echo of feelings!"

Lestrade's eyes wouldn't meet Sherlock's. "It was undoubtedly a traumatic experience and it's not uncommon for-"

"Oh, save me the lecture," Sherlock growled as he sprang to his feet, the whoosh of his cloak flickering the embers of the fire. "Did you or did you not alter my memories from before the Academy?"

The bluntness of Sherlock's accusation was enough to rouse Lestrade from the bog that he had sunken into. Though when he finally met Sherlock's eyes it wasn't in defiance or offense; Rather, it was with weary resignation.

"I did what I had to do."

"I _knew_ it," Sherlock all but seethed, voice rising in pitch but uncaring if he woke John and Mary. "You _bastard._ "

"Perhaps I am," Lestrade was also standing now, and there was nothing but the crackling remains of the fire separating the two men. "But if it could keep you safe I would do it all over again!"

"Just like how you tried to separate Molly and I?" Sherlock didn't need to tap into the dark side of the Force to achieve the deadly tone of his voice.

Lestrade looked away. "That was a mistake, I know that now and I will never be able to make things right by you-"

" _Damn right._ "

"-but this," Lestrade's eyes hardened. "This is another matter entirely. And if you keep digging Sherlock, you _will_ lose yourself. And that is something I refuse to watch happen."

They held each other's eyesight for a moment more, the elder fortified with determination, and the younger brimming with a multitude of unnameable emotions.

"Then look the other way," Sherlock finally spat.

And with that he turned on his heel, and stalked off towards the huts.

/

Sleep, unsurprisingly, took a long time to come around.

It was as though a swarm of bees had taken shelter just beneath Sherlock's skin; No matter what he did his blood was _buzzing,_ and he was all too riled up to rest. He had had just about enough of Lestrade's obtuseness and evasions. Who was he to decide what Sherlock could and couldn't handle?

An old fart, that was who.

Needing to burn some of the energy keeping him up, Sherlock initially tried to physically exhaust himself which was a feat in itself in his cramped hut. He did a hundred reps of nearly every strength and balance exercise that he could think of, and only when he collapsed with his back against the stone wall, did he consider that perhaps it was his mind and not his body keeping him up.

His thoughts were racing a mile a minute – not exactly an uncommon occurrence. The real issue was the feelings that his current thoughts were dredging up. All the anger and hate that had been brewing for the last six years. The pain and bitterness that ached when he moved. The hurt that paralyzed his chest.

Not for the first time that evening, tears burned in the corners of Sherlock's eyes, and he _hated_ himself for it.

He was stronger than this. He _knew_ that.

So why the _kriff_ did he feel like he wasn't?

With a sigh that felt like the weight of the world, he let his head thunk back against the cool stones behind him, his body slumping in defeat.

Why was life so _hard_? What had he done to receive the hell he lived in? He had tried to be a good person; He had worked _tirelessly_ to avoid the darkness. He had loved Molly with his entire being. He had done his utmost to make Lestrade proud.

Why had it not been enough?

He was so caught up in his self-made pit of despair that he missed the moment that something in the Force _twisted._

And as such, he was completely startled at the hesitant, "Sherlock?" That suddenly echoed around the room.

It was probably funny, the way that his entire body violently twitched at the unexpected call, resulting in his slumped head snapping back at the speed of light right smack dab into the hard stone of the hut. He let out a string of expletives as a burst of stars blurred his vision, and he once again that evening fought the urge to cry as his shoulders slumped even further, and his hands came up to silently cradle his head.

Not _now._

The universe clearly hated him. There was no doubt about it.

Childishly hoping that if he made no movement she would go away, Sherlock remained curled up on himself, eyes screwed firmly shut, not even daring to breath. He didn't care that he was acting like an infant despite being a full-grown man.

They all called him a man-child anyways.

And he was definitely _way_ past dignity at this point, so what did it even matter? He just wanted her _to go away._

Unfortunately, Sherlock had the bad habit of never getting what he wanted. Which was probably why, a few moments later, he felt Molly's fingers hesitantly ghost over the ends of his curls.

"Are you ok?" Her whisper might as well have been a shout in the deathly silence of his hut. And instead of answering he did _exactly_ what he told himself not to do.

He pressed his head closer into her palm, wanting, _needing,_ to feel her for even just a moment.

She got the hint, and quickly ducked down beside him, her arms awkwardly wrapping around his larger, bony frame as Sherlock buried his face into the crook of her neck, not caring that she was the enemy, that she had betrayed him, that she had _hurt_ him.

He just wanted comfort. And she was one of the few people in the galaxy that he knew could provide that for him.

And that was when the tears came. The gut-wrenching, ugly sobs that he had been repressing as best as he could all day. Because when it all came down to it, the presence of Molly Hooper was truly the only one in which Sherlock Holmes felt safe, felt _free._ When he was with Molly it was the only time that he could truly be himself.

A scared little boy with no idea of what to do next.

A million images flashed before his eyes. The first night she had ever woken him from a nightmare when he had been nothing but tears and darkness and _fear._ Years later, when he had been running through the woods in tears and terror because _he had almost killed her in a rage of darkness,_ and there was nothing more devastating than knowing that you were a danger to the one you loved most.

Both times, Molly Hooper had been the only one who could calm him down. The only one who reminded him that it was ok to be afraid, so long as he got back up afterwards.

Thousands upon thousands of other instances danced through Sherlock's memory, from inconsequential moments to ones that defined their lives. Throughout all of it, Molly Hooper was the one who comforted him.

And perhaps that was the most heart-breaking thing of all.

Because even now, years later and when they were on opposing sides of a war – after they had tried to _kill_ each other – Molly Hooper was still the only one who could bring Sherlock Holmes comfort. She was still the only one he would _turn_ to when he needed comfort.

She held him until his sobs petered out, but even afterwards her grip on him did not loosen. Silence descended upon the pair as Sherlock's breathing finally evened-out and the tension that had been building in his muscles all day seeped away to nothingness.

"I'm sorry," His lips ghosted over her collarbone as he apologized, and once more he found himself aching for everything they had lost.

Her hands were still threaded in his hair. "Don't be silly. We all have our moments of weakness."

Her words did little to soothe the knot still in his stomach though, and almost subconsciously he found himself telling her about the source of his distress.

"I saw Lestrade."

Molly's body went rigid, her hands freezing in their ministrations to his scalp. He felt more so than heard her sharp intake of breath, and the word she breathed was as cold as ice. "What?"

He let out a sigh as he finally extricated himself from Molly, not pulling away completely, but freeing his upper body enough to lean back heavily against the stone wall once more. Whether out of shock or habit, Molly mirrored his actions until their shoulders were resting against each other's and they were both staring unseeingly at the other wall before them.

"I saw Lestrade. Or, more accurately I suppose, I punched Lestrade."

Molly didn't laugh though. Rather, her body tensed even more so if that was possible, while something dark rippled across the Force.

"And what," The words were spat through gritted teeth, "Could you possibly want with him?"

Another sigh. "He's the Resistance's only hope to defeat the First Order."

" _Him?_ " She spat the word as though it was venom. "You can't possibly trust him to help you after what he did."

But Sherlock was already resigned. "What choice do we have?"

Molly was having none of it. "Force dammit, Sherlock! Do you not remember what he did? He ruined our lives, he betrayed our _trust._ Does that mean nothing to you?"

Sherlock's eyes were dead as he turned his head to look at her.

"I suppose you could say that I've gotten used to the hurt that accompanies a betrayal."

 _That_ remark sobered her anger, and Sherlock unmistakably caught the flicker of guilt in her brown eyes as she looked away.

"That's different," She tried to reason. "I'm doing this to protect you."

Sherlock found himself too tired to care, too worn out from the day of emotions to summon anything other than indifference. "That's what he thought too."

Silence descended upon them once again.

It was broken by a fervent whisper. A cracked voice marred by wretched circumstance, and yet still straining to share the one sliver of truth that no amount of darkness could destroy.

"I love you."

It was an oath.

"I know. I love you too."

Something that not even time, destiny, nor the Force itself could cease to be.

And that was the sad truth of it all. No matter what happened, no matter where they stood, Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper would always love each other. Even when it would mean their downfall.

They sat beside each other, like they had a thousand times in the past, staring at the wall before them in silence, wondering where they went from there. And with a heavy heart, Sherlock realized that he simply did not know.

Molly seemed to have the same train of thought.

"Can you ever forgive me?" Her words curled around his aching heart, the same way that her fingers curled around his own.

And in that moment, Sherlock felt completely at peace for the first time in his entire life.

"I can," He replied honestly. "But I think that the real question we need to ask is if you can forgive yourself."

Her hand squeezed his so tightly that his knuckle popped, and Sherlock already knew the answer.

Molly Hooper would never forgive herself for what she had done.

But that didn't mean that they couldn't move on.

/

He awoke to a stiff neck and a sore bottom, his body still awkwardly half-leaning against the stone wall of the hut while his legs were doing their best to sprawl in separate directions. The sunlight that streamed across his face from the slit in the stones was an unwelcomed companion, and he found himself groaning in annoyance.

Of its own accord, Sherlock found his too-empty hand reaching for the person he knew that the Force has whisked away hours before.

He found himself letting out a heavy breath as he roused himself completely, his other hand coming up to rub at the crick in his neck that made itself known when he tried to straighten up.

A rattle of laughter had him squinting his right eye open.

"You do realise that there was a perfectly good palate beside you that you could've slept on, don't you?" The pilot's much-too-cheery-for-the-early-morning voice rang a tad too loudly for Sherlock's liking. He tried to glare, but his rather tousled appearance just caused Mary's grin to widen. "We'll be taking off in half an hour. Do whatever you need to before then, Sleeping Beauty."

He shouted a not-too-pleasant insult that he had picked up from his time on Jakku at her retreating figure, but was disappointingly met with just her laughter in return. Grumbling to himself he finally fully got up, unprepared but fully resigned to the day ahead.

/

"So let me get this straight," Mary was rubbing hard at her brow, and John could only wince in sympathy. "Your brother whom you thought had died twenty some years ago in a fire, actually survived and is now the Supreme Leader of the First Order?"

Sherlock, for his part, barely looked up from where he was fiddling with his laser sword. "Yup."

"And you," Mary turned her focus to Lestrade, "Tried to separate Sherlock and Molly, resulting in Molly becoming Kylo Ren."

"Guilty," The older man took a swig of something fairly suspicious from his flask, but John didn't have the guts to accuse Jedi Master Lestrade, Hero and Saviour of the Galaxy, of drinking before eleven o'clock in the morning, even if he had proven himself to be a wretched arse.

"And now," Mary continued on blithely, "We need to kill the Supreme Leader, convince Molly to come back to the light, and take over control of the First Order before they manage to annihilate the Resistance."

John leaned back in his chair. "Pretty much. Though I am curious," He turned ever so slightly towards the gangly sourpuss who had somehow managed to become one of his best friends over the last few days, "How do you even know Molly _will_ turn?"

"The Force," Sherlock answered, a slight hint of annoyance tinging his voice as well. John wasn't fooled though – he saw the way that Sherlock's hands stilled momentarily, and his eyes refused to make contact. The git was hiding something, and he wasn't hiding it very well.

Before John could bring up his concerns, however, Lestrade separated his mouth from his flask long enough to voice a question. "Your Force Bond should've been destroyed when you were cut off from the Force though."

At that Sherlock's hands stilled completely, and his head tilted just enough to prickle John's flesh. "Another one formed shortly after I reconnected. You would know that if you hadn't cut yourself off from the Force like a coward."

By the end of his jab Sherlock's head was raised and his eyes were narrowed in a most terrifying manner. John could almost feel the dip in temperature, and he wasn't sure if he was imagining the slight flicker of the lights or not.

Judging by Lestrade's exhausted expression, he wasn't, and he wasn't sure if he was relieved or not by that fact.

"Hold up," Mary let out another sigh. "Can someone please explain that in Basic for us mere mortals?"

"Yes, actually," John settled himself once more, looking over again at Sherlock. "We have a bit before we arrive back on Crait, and I'm quite interested to hear the story."

To John's surprise, Sherlock didn't look back at him with exasperation, but rather turned to Lestrade with a faint hint of curiosity that he was trying and failing to hide with disdain. And then it floored John.

Sherlock didn't know the story either, despite evidently being a key component in it.

John didn't know whether to feel saddened or angered for the younger man, whose life was so evidently manipulated by those he had once trusted. No wonder why he was such an enormous git all the time; John would be too if he was always the butt end of the galaxy's joke.

Despite looking like he wished a black hole would suck their ship out of hyperdrive, Lestrade finally placed his flask on the table beside his chair, and ran a weathered hand through his startling silver hair.

"Well," He started slowly, "I'm not sure where to begin."

"How about from the beginning," Sherlock's curiosity didn't dampen the sharp bitterness of his words. "What happened that night at the Academy? What happened after I gave into the darkness?"

It was incredible, how one so revered by the galaxy could also look so _old_ because of a simple question. With his shoulders hunched and his eyes down-trodden, Greg Lestrade hardly looked like he could handle a common cold, let alone lead them to victory against the First Order.

"We hadn't been expecting it," The old man finally started after a moment. "Your Bond with each other. We had thought – _I_ had thought – that if we could just separate you two that we would be able to wipe your memories of each other, start you with a fresh slate. We hadn't been expecting how hard you would fight though. One moment I was holding you still, and the next you had unleashed a power so terrifyingly ancient that it threw me back fifty feet. The next thing I saw was Molly scream and _push_ you, and then you collapsed as though you were dead.

"What happened next I will never forget," Lestrade was shaking, eyes hollow as he remembered. "Molly had somehow _taken_ the darkness from you, and it consumed her alive. She killed Master Artelle and Moriarty as though they were nothing, and destroyed everything in her wake. She went straight for the Academy and killed anything that moved, wrought destruction on anything that dared to stand.

"I knew that nothing would be able to stop her in her rage, and so I had to make the decision that I knew would always haunt me," Lestrade's eyes finally met Sherlock's. "I ran away. I turned my back on all my students, all my children, and I let them be slaughtered."

The words echoed heavily around the room, before weighing upon the shoulders of all who were in rapt attention. John struggled to blink, breath, _process_ what he was hearing. It was all so shockingly horrific, and the terrifying thing was that he was able to relate to this picture of Molly Hooper more so than any one that Sherlock had tried to describe to him.

Kylo Ren was a murderer, and John had witnessed her acts of horror first hand.

Of course, hearing about the event that started it all was no less wretched – it was all too easy for the ex-Stormtrooper to meld the very real screams that rattled his nightmares with the imaginary ones of children.

Sherlock's deep baritone interrupted John's ugly musings.

"Except for me."

Lestrade conceded with a tilt of his head. "Except for you. Whether by sheer luck or not, when you Force-shoved me away I had tumbled out of Molly's field of vision, and so after she killed Artelle and Moriarty she just went straight for the Academy, leaving your lifeless body and myself behind in the forest as it started to catch fire. I managed to carry you to a ship and some how we got off-planet before getting caught up in the destruction.

"When Molly had shoved you, she hadn't just yanked the darkness from yourself into her own body. She some how managed to shut off your connection to the Force completely. I used that to my advantage once I realized that you could no longer be a danger to yourself and others. I suppressed your memories as best as I could, and supplanted new ones in their wake. I left you at the first Outer Rim planet I came across and could only pray that you'd at least get to live out your life, even if it was under the guise of another.

"And then I hid," Lestrade's sigh was as heavy as his story. "I couldn't take the shame of what I had done, of what I had caused, of what I had _lost._ I cut myself off from the Force, and found the most remote location the galaxy had to offer."

"So that's it then?" John wasn't sure why he was angry, but he was _shaking_ with fury. "You screw up everybody's lives and then go and hide away on a rock? Can you even help us defeat the First Order if you're not connected to the Force?"

The solemn look on the Old Jedi's face was answer enough.

"Unbelievable!" John was out of his seat now, shouting much too loud for the confined space. "You absolute _coward!_ You know that I used to look up to you, right? That every child in this whole Force-damned galaxy looks up to you as a hero, and all you can do is watch from the sidelines as they get _murdered_ by the First Order and the mess you created-"

"-John-"

"-And now you won't even _try_ to make things better-"

"- _John-_ "

"-Because you're all too busy wallowing in your own _kriffing_ self-pity!"

It was only a firm hand on his shoulder that finally broke off John's tirade. Sherlock's face was creased with exhaustion, and his mouth was set with resignation. "That's enough."

"Enough?" John turned on the very man who should've been leading his rant in the first place. "What do you mean _enough_? He ought to rot in carbonite for a thousand years for what he did!"

"I agree," Sherlock's tone was severe, and startlingly mature. "But that unfortunately will not help us with the current situation."

Suitably chastised, John finally backed down. "Fine," He turned back to Lestrade. "But don't think that I'm not going to make you face justice for everything you've done once this war is over."

Lestrade wisely did not respond, but rather went back to his flask. Mary stood up from where she had been listening, muttering about checking flight controls since they'd be arriving soon. John stalked off to the other side of the room, needing as much space to cool down as possible. He was unfortunately all too aware of his ever-looming shadow.

He threw himself heavily into a seat by the window, set on ignoring Sherlock who was staring at him curiously as he took the seat opposite.

The silence barely lasted a minute.

"Why are you angry?"

John nearly sputtered at the question. "Why am I angry?" He fought to keep his voice low so that it wouldn't drift over to Lestrade's unwanted attention. "How are you _not_ angry? Just last night you destroyed a tree just because you had to endure dinner with the man, and now when he's described in detail how he insurmountably screwed up your life you're just sitting there like some _droid_."

Something flashed in the younger man's eyes at John's accusation. _Good._ It was about _kriffing_ time something chinked the armour that Sherlock had shrugged on.

"Let me assure you," His voice was measured, but the spike of anger behind his eyes was undeniable. "Words cannot begin to equate with the fury I feel right now. But loosing our temper is not going to win this war. We're soldiers, John. Nothing more, nothing less. And we can't allow personal issues to get in the way of that, no matter how monumental they seem."

"I know," John simultaneously let out a deep breath with his response. "But I still don't get how you're taking it all so well today."

At that Sherlock finally offered John a small, sad smile. "Perhaps I've just had a change of perspective. After all, I do know a thing or two about doing anything to protect the ones you care about."

Sherlock's eyes became distant as his sentence petered off, eyes drifting to the passing star trails out the window. And not for the first time, John felt sorry for the young man before him who was cursed to bear the weight of the galaxy upon his shoulders.

"We'll get her back," He found himself saying, despite his own reservations of the task. Sherlock's brow creased slightly at his sudden statement, and John cleared his throat, realizing that he needed to clarify. "Molly. If you say she's ready to turn, then we'll get her back. And not even the Force will be able to stop us."

He was rewarded with a grateful smile. "Thank you, John."

John's own smile was a tad lighter as he felt them drop out of hyperdrive. "You're welcome, Sherlock. After all, that is what friends are for."

/

"Well aren't you a sight for sore eyes."

Despite all the hustle and bustle going on at the base due to the arrival of the search party, Lady Smallwood's voice carried over the din clearly. Mary would've smiled, but the ex-Senator's eyes were already trained on the Jedi Master.

"Alicia," Master Lestrade gave a worn smile, and Mary startled when she realized it was the first time that he had an expression other than solemn doom on his features. "It's good to see you too. Though I don't believe that I'll be as much help as you hope."

"Any help is more than I hoped for in the first place," Lady Smallwood replied, ever the diplomat. Her gaze drifted back to Mary and the two men behind her. "I've called a debriefing and you're all required to come," Her eyes hardened slightly as they focused on the person behind her left shoulder. "Including you, Sherlock."

Mary was vaguely aware of Sherlock's sniff of derision, but pasted a bright smile on her own face to draw attention away from it. "Of course! We follow you."

How they all managed to get to the meeting room with neither Sherlock nor John slipping away was a miracle, and it likely had something to do with the death glare Mary was sure to throw over her shoulder ever few seconds. As they settled into their seats, Lady Smallwood was quick to update them on the situation.

"We have an inside source that can confirm that the First Order is quickly getting back on their feet after the whole Starkiller debacle. They've been supplementing their manpower by recruiting from Outer Rim planets, and have been steadily preparing to begin assimilation of planets into their territory."

"Well they certainly didn't stay down for long," One of the decorated generals on Mary's left grumbled. Lady Smallwood pursed her lips in response.

"No, they did not. Which means that if we're going to attack it needs to be meaningful and it needs to be _now._ Once they're back up and running at full capacity, we won't stand a chance."

"But how?" A woman – an admiral if Mary could recall correctly – spoke up.

"By starting at the top," Sherlock's baritone surprised everyone as it sliced through the atmosphere. "We need to assassinate the Supreme Leader."

There was a moment of silence before a guffaw of laughter broke out. "You're joking, right? Even if you and Master Lestrade teamed up, you wouldn't be able to defeat him. They say he's darkness himself; A Sith straight out of the old lore. You wouldn't stand a chance."

"Perhaps," Mary watched as a muscle in Sherlock's jaw ticked, but was impressed when the younger man held his temper. "But we wouldn't be alone."

The old general was beginning to get on Mary's nerves as he continued chuckling. "Oh really, and who else would be with you? Surely not the pilot and the Stormtrooper. Yes, I can see how that would just work out _perfectly._ "

Before Mary could snarl in defense of herself and John, Sherlock beat her to it. "They are both more than capable which is more than I could say about you," It was evident that Sherlock was reaching the end of his patience tether. "But I had another person in mind," The git paused in dramatics, before raising an eyebrow and stating: "Kylo Ren."

The room paused for exactly one awkward blink, before everyone was shouting in hysterics.

"You _can't_ be serious."

"- _Told_ you he was mad-"

"Why don't we just surrender while we're at it?"

" _Enough!_ " Lady Smallwood's shout was enough to still the room, although the murmurs continued to jostle in the disquiet. She turned a careful eye to Sherlock's imposing frame. "Explain. Now."

Mary watched as Sherlock schooled his features into the haughty discontent that she had had the privilege of experiencing first hand when she had first met him.

"Kylo Ren is on the verge of turning," He spoke quickly and decisively, leaving no room for argument. "I've… felt it, through the Force. Lestrade agrees with me."

Mary was rather taken aback at how seamlessly Sherlock included Lestrade in his argument, despite the pissing fit that he had been throwing the past few days whenever the thought of the older Jedi came up. Lestrade, surprisingly, nodded along.

"So, what?" Smallwood narrowed her eyes. "Having a hunch that you can turn the right hand of the Supreme Leader against him is not going to win this war."

Mary could tell that Sherlock was getting fed up with the ineptitude of the others, despite still attempting to keep all his cards close to his chest. He let out a huff that wasn't altogether benign.

And then the most terrifying thing happened.

The world started _floating._

Mary held back a gasp as the Holo before her rose into the air ever so slightly. And she knew that she wasn't the only one completely taken off guard, judging by the gasps of confusion as the others stared at various other objects that were also acting as though gravity had completely forsaken the planet.

Sherlock was shaking.

And for the first time since their first meeting together, Mary was reminded was sudden certainty that Sherlock Holmes was _dangerous._

"Do not mistake a certainty as a suspicion, _Senator_ ," Sherlock spat Lady Smallwood's old title as though it had committed a personal offense against him. "And most certainly do not suspect my lack of title to mean that I have a lack of understanding."

For a horrifying moment, the world was caught between the breath of the Almost-Jedi and ex-Senator.

And then that moment ended.

"I wouldn't dare," Smallwood's voice was low though it conveyed the determination necessary to convey her point. "But I'd be a remiss leader if I placed all my chips on one card."

Her steady words seemed to calm something in Sherlock, and Mary watched out of the corner of her eyes as his shoulders infinitesimally relaxed. The objects didn't stop floating though.

It was only when Lestrade let out a harsh, " _Sherlock_ ," That the objects clattered to the table, much to the relief of the majority of those present – many of whom had thought the Force to be nothing but old superstition in the first place. Mary was almost smug to see their alarmed faces of disquiet.

"I take it you have a plan then," John spoke up for the first time since the meeting commenced, ever the military man. He held the ex-Senator's eye steadily, before Lady Smallwood finally turned away, summoning something up on the Holo screen.

"It has been confirmed that the Supreme Leader's main base of operations is a starship called the Finalizer. Mary has spent some time up and personal with it," Lady Smallwood caught Mary's eye momentarily. John made a sound in the back of his throat.

"Yeah, so have I. It's one of the most heavily reinforced starships in the galaxy and fortified with nearly every weapon save the Death Star itself. All of the First Order's operations are managed from that ship, and nearly all the upper management are housed there. It's basically a flying death trap."

Smallwood's glare silenced him. "That may be the case," Her words were curt and didn't give John a chance to interrupt again. "But it's only a trap if you enter."

Suddenly an image of an unrecognizable starship came across the Holo. "We've been developing a counter measure against First Order weapons. Initially this ship was designed to be able to disable Starkiller base, but thanks to your intervention its existence is still unknown. It is outfitted with a retrograde multi-cylinder laser canon – strong enough to pierce several miles of steel and fry the crucial components of a starship," Smallwood stated the facts almost sarcastically as she raised an eyebrow at John. "All without the need of actually getting close to the starship, of course."

"So, what?" Mary found herself reiterating Lady Smallwood's question to Sherlock. "Your plan now is to resort to First Order tactics? There are innocent people on that ship. Workers and Stormtroopers and families of First Order members that are only following orders. If you do this then the Resistance will be no better than them."

"Perhaps," Lady Smallwood conceded. "Which is why this is simply our back-up plan." She sharply turned to assess Sherlock, who was regarding her coldly. "I do not believe in you, Mr. Holmes," Her words were harsh and undeniable. "To me you will always be the child too entrenched in the darkness to ever aid the light. But," Here she closed her eyes, the stress of her position more than evident in the crease between her brows. "For the sake of the Resistance, I must.

"You have twenty-four hours to infiltrate the Finalizer, turn Kylo Ren, and kill the Supreme Leader," The ultimatum was clear. "Twenty-four hours to take over the First Order, and prove that the Jedi can still be believed in. Otherwise you die," She did not blink as she stared the younger man down. "You, the Jedi, the First Order, the _Force._ You all go down in history as something that was. Legends. Myths. _Stories._ We will destroy you if we have to. If it means the survival of the many. Do I make myself clear?"

" _Crystal_ ," Sherlock returned her unwavering stare.

"Twenty-four hours, Sherlock Holmes," It was ominous, and Mary hated the weight that it carried. "And then I will bring about judgement."

Sherlock, in typical fashion, disregarded the warning, standing up and shattering the spell that had been cast over the meeting. Several of the generals and admirals startled at his sudden movement, but Sherlock wasn't fazed.

"Looking forward to it," His tone was a challenge that Mary didn't feel up to, even as he strutted confidently from the room. "See you then."

/

Sherlock couldn't sleep.

It was a reoccurring problem that he wasn't all that fond of.

Growling in frustration as he readjusted himself on his bunk, his eyes flicked to the chrono on the bedside table, only to confirm his suspicion that the early hours of the morning were slowly slipping away from him. If he didn't get any rest soon, he'd be in a sorry state for the mission later that day.

The thought made something ugly twist in his gut.

He knew that it was risky, the gamble he was taking. He didn't actually know if he could convince Molly to come back to the light and help him defeat the Supreme Leader. Normally his own life would be near meaningless to him, and he would do whatever it took to at least try.

This time, however, there was more at stake than just his life. Now he had… friends to consider. If he failed in his mission, it wasn't just himself and Molly that would suffer. John would die. Mary too. Even Lestrade, whom although Sherlock still felt bitter towards, was still ultimately not someone that Sherlock wanted to watch die nor be responsible for his death.

There was a nasty, ashen taste in his mouth.

What if Molly didn't turn?

He knew that he would still try to kill the Supreme Leader. He had suffered too long at the hand of the Monster from his childhood, and not even the startling revelation of his identity could change Sherlock's stance. The problem was that without Molly's help he didn't think that he stood a chance.

And if Molly turned on him…

He'd rather be run through a thousand times over with her blade, than raise his own against her once more.

He had to have faith in her, in the Force, in _them._ Despite everything that had come to pass, they had still once known each other better than themselves. Had laughed together, and cried together. Loved together, and fought together.

But more than that, they hadn't just loved each other; They had been each other's confidants, each other's best friends. They shared every secret, carried the burden of every nightmare. They were so intertwined on so many aspects that it had been truly impossibly to tell where one began and the other ended.

And somehow, despite all the horrors, opposition, and catastrophe that they had faced, they were still ultimately Sherlock and Molly. They would love each other till the end of their days, no matter what side of the war they were on.

Sherlock needed to believe that.

Most importantly, he needed to have _faith_ in that. For without it, he truly might as well have been just a Scavenger from Jakku, lost in the sands of time, nothing more than one of a million pebbles on a rocky shore.

He had nearly drifted off when he had felt the slight ripple in the Force, the infinitesimal _tweak_ that he was getting all too familiar with. This time, however, rather than feeling the change of fabric or the dip in temperature, the bed merely shifted beside him.

His breath caught as he turned over and realized that the Force had brought Molly to him this time, rather than the other way around like usual. It seemed to take her a moment to make the connection as well.

"Hi," She finally breathed when she turned her head slightly, her shoulder jostling his while she did so.

"Hello," He blinked, voice fringed with the edges of sleep. "I didn't think I'd be seeing you before tomorrow."

He felt more so than heard her sigh. "Whatever you're planning is a bad idea. You can't defeat him, Sherlock. It's only going to end poorly."

"Perhaps I can't. But _we_ can."

She looked away from him then, and Sherlock had to suddenly fight the urge to lean over and press a kiss to the sudden expanse of neck exposed. With the rough sheets and the slightly too small bed in the dingy Resistance base it was almost enough for Sherlock to pretend that they were still back in the Academy, still children learning how to love.

It made her hesitation all the more painful to bear.

"You know that's not an option," Her voice was almost lost in the quiet of his quarters, her head still turned away.

Sherlock flexed his feet, all too aware of the closeness of her body alongside his. His voice betrayed his frustration as he spoke. "But _why_?"

The slightest sniffle. "I made a promise to myself that I would always protect you no matter the cost, Sherlock. _This_ is the cost. You must leave me be to pay it."

Something terrifying prickled over Sherlock's skin, his voice a hushed whisper in the dark. "Protect me from what?"

With that Molly finally turned her head back around, her nose nearly brushing Sherlock's own as she did so, eyes unmistakably, hauntingly empty even in the darkness of the night.

"Yourself," She said the truth quietly, as though she had long ago resigned herself to the inevitable. "I must protect you from yourself, Sherlock."

Sherlock's heart was pounding in his chest, and he felt his brow furrow as his mind raced to process her words. And the utter horror that solidified itself in his stomach threatened to bring up the meager meal he had eaten earlier, because he knew without a doubt that she was right.

He was a monster.

He had known that from the beginning.

Because the truth was that no matter how hard he fought and no matter how hard he tried, his greatest enemy would always be himself. In that sense, people had been right all his life.

Darkness threatened to consume him. But that didn't mean that the Light still couldn't be victorious.

Because even if the light and the dark were two sides of a coin, they were still two sides of the _same_ coin. The concepts of light and dark, good and bad were just that: _concepts._ When one really considered it, they were merely different interpretations of the Force, of _one_ Force.

In reality there were no opposing sides, no light nor dark that could destroy the other. For in order for one to exist, the other had to too.

And in that moment, Sherlock realized with startling clarity why the Force had always drawn himself and Molly together, why they fit so perfectly into each other's lives.

He was darkness. She was light.

But in truth, they were just the Force.

It was why he no longer felt a distinction when he used the Force, why it seemed like there was an absence of both light and dark.

Neither concept existed without the other. And it was only his actions which made the Force light or dark, good or bad.

The darkness tried to drown him because he never realized that it wasn't darkness but just his own demons coming to haunt him. His anger, his pain, his sorrow. _Those_ were the emotions that manipulated the Force, and not the other way around.

And sometimes one had to risk the darkness in order to see the light. Draw the monster inside oneself into the light in order to finally slay such a beast.

It was a daunting thought.

His breath caught in his throat as he realized there were tears running parallel once more down his cheeks and Molly's.

"But that's just it," His voice was thick with emotion, the tone somber with reality as he voiced his startling realization. "There is no dark, there is no light. Only our actions define who we are, and if I'm truly as good as you once believed I was then I _will_ be able to do the right thing. And if not, then I deserve to be lost to both the dark and the light anyways. After all, it is better for only one to be lost, than for an entire galaxy to suffer at the hands of one who misuses the Force. And you're the only one who can ensure that."

She was shaking – or perhaps he was. It was hard to tell in the small space.

"You cannot ask that of me," Molly's voice poorly masked her emotions as she followed Sherlock's train of thought.

"I wish I didn't have to," Something in Sherlock's chest _ached,_ and it was only a moment later that he realized it was his heart. "But it's how it's meant to be. It's the only way we can succeed. I kill Mycroft, and if it's too much, you kill me."

"I already had to live with myself for believing to have killed you once," Her voice strained, "I truly will become Kylo Ren if I have to kill you twice. And then where will the galaxy be?"

"But that's just it," Hesitantly, his hand reached for hers under the covers, intertwining like they had over a thousand times in the past. Safe. Secure. "There is no darkness, there is no light. It's only _your_ actions that define the Force. You could never truly succumb to the darkness, Molly, because you are too ardently _good._ Even now, after all you've done, you want to do what's right. You wouldn't be weighed down so heavily by guilt otherwise. In that sense, you _are_ light."

"And what about you," Her hand was squeezing his now in desperation. "Why can you not choose to do good? Why will the darkness consume you? How can you _let_ it consume you?"

She spat the words in rage, unaccepting of the truth Sherlock was insisting upon. But he couldn't meet her eyes.

"Sometimes," He was a child once more, tucked into bed with her for the first time, relying on her unending comfort to chase his nightmares away. "We want to be something. We want to be other. Bigger. Better. But we don't always get what we want. Because at the end of the day we're still just ourselves, with all our faults, and cracks, and broken bits. But we still try and we still dream. We still have _hope_ that one day we will overcome our demons. And sometimes, that has to be enough," He finally met her eyes once more, his free hand coming up and tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "For some of us, that's as good as we'll ever be."

"But why?" Her voice shook, her body trembled. "I don't want to lose you again, Sherlock. I _can't_."

"And you won't," He tried for a smile, despite the tears, and heart ache, and pain. "Because as long as you keep me in your memory, I'll always be with you. I will be right there, with you by your side. And truly, that is all I could ever ask for. I love you, Molly Hooper."

She tried to smile back, despite the sob that threatened to wrack her body. "And I you, Sherlock Holmes."

He wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, crying for all they had lost and all they would lose. Mourning for which was to come, grieving for all that could never be.

It was not until the night had crept on and eyelids had grown heavy that Sherlock Holmes finally leaned forward, and kissed Molly Hooper one last time in goodbye.

Tomorrow would come what may. Either he would stand strong and slay the beast within himself once and for all, or he would die as nothing more than a memory, a name lost to history and time.

Either way, the galaxy would be safe and the Supreme Leader would be vanquished.

And Molly would be free.

But for now, he would content himself with her body curled up beside his, her drowsy breath gentle on his collarbone, and their hands intertwined like an age-old puzzle.

Yes, tomorrow would come what may.

But for now, they had the present.

And it was more than either could have ever asked for.

/

Destiny was a funny thing.

What was lovely about it was the fact that it didn't matter whether one believed in it or not.

Because sometimes, destiny believed in you.

/

"This is the stupidest plan we have ever had, and that's _including_ all the stupid things we have done this past week," Mary let out a ragged sigh, running her hand through her tangled blonde curls, and already feeling that the day had been too long, despite the fact that it was still before day break.

"I'm inclined to agree with Mary on this one," John, love that he was, placed a steaming mug of caf in front of the disgruntled pilot, earning a grateful look on her end. He pulled out the chair beside hers, before all but collapsing into it. "Are we forgetting what happened last time you just surrendered to the First Order, Sherlock? If you need a refresher it literally just happened, like, _three kriffing days ago_ and I can give you a detailed account of what fruits your utter stupidity harvested if you need."

Mary's eyes slid over to the petulant man-child that was spinning – yes, _spinning_ – in his turn-chair, rolling his eyes as he went. "Honestly John," His voice was condescending, "It wasn't _that_ bad. And besides, this time the surrender is just a decoy."

"Which makes me feel _so much better_ ," Mary caught a laugh in the back of her throat at the sarcasm levels John was giving off, but wisely schooled her features when Sherlock's eyes narrowed and flicked in her direction.

In all honesty, the plan wasn't so much a _plan_ as it was a mesh of half-arsed ideas and theories. John and Mary were to take the YT-1300 and fly straight into the Finalizer's cargo hold, claiming surrender. John insisted that the path to the brig would take them past the auxiliary life-support control room, at which point they would have to over-power their guard and shut down the ship's access, essentially trapping all the First Order personnel in their various rooms without access to any escape pods.

Meanwhile, Sherlock and Lestrade were to sneak out of the YT-1300's cargo hold where they were going to be hiding, and had to find Molly, turn her, and kill the Supreme Leader.

Hopefully before John and Mary were killed or incarcerated.

On the slim chance that they succeeded, they would have not only gained control of the First Order but also would have held nearly all of their high-ranking officers at their mercy.

It seemed like a good plan.

The only problem was that nothing ever worked out the way that they planned it, and there was one too many chances for error for Mary's liking.

It mattered not though. This was the only chance they had to end this war with minimal bloodshed, and Mary would be damned if they let it slip through their fingers. Even if it meant they all died in the end.

She did her best to clear her throat, eyes firmly fixed away from the Scavenger's. "Feelings and stupidity aside, it's unfortunately the best plan we've got. Smallwood and the generals will be convening in a half hour to see us off," She swallowed. "I suggest you take care of any last business before then."

With that Mary found her eyes lingering on the handful of people who had changed her life so abruptly during the past week. The warm eyes of John. The calculating posture of Sherlock. And even the indifferent gaze of Lestrade.

Somehow, they had all wormed their way into her hectic life.

And now, that might be over.

She let out one last breath, her words like that of a prayer. "May the Force be with all of us."

/

"Hey, Sherlock, you got a sec?"

Sherlock paused from where he was in his quarters, double checking his quarterstaff and wondering whether or not it made sense to bring it. With his lightsaber at hand it was a pretty useless weapon, but at the same time he had grown rather fond of the metal monstrosity during his time on Jakku.

He looked up at John's sudden entrance, surprised since they were supposed to be in the hangar in less than five minutes. "Of course," He responded to the ex-Trooper's sudden inquiry. "How can I help?"

The older man paused in the doorway, his eyes focused on the cuff of his jacket as he fiddled with the button. Sherlock felt his eyebrow raise as he took in his friend's nervous behaviour.

"Good. Yes, well," John finally stepped forward and if Sherlock hadn't noticed that he was nervous before, it became more than evident when he slipped into a military pose, his hands resting behind his back and his chin held high. John only ever slipped into the comfort of his training when he needed to focus his attention on the task at hand.

"Yes?" Sherlock prompted, realizing that if John was left to his own devices, they very well might've ended up standing there for all of eternity. And then Mary really would come and kill them both.

The ex-Trooper cleared his throat. "Ah, right. I just- That is-" For a moment a look of consternation came over his brow and Sherlock fought the amusement swelling in his chest. "Okay, look," He finally let out a sigh. "I just wanted to say that no matter how we come out of this, I just wanted to let you know that you're my best friend, Sherlock. You changed my life and gave me a name and a purpose when I had none, and for that you will always have my gratitude."

For a moment the world paused as John's words sunk in. Immediately once his piece was done John's eyes darted else where, but Sherlock found his stare unable to waver from the shorter man before him.

John called him a friend.

But more than that, his _best_ friend.

Something beneath Sherlock's breastbone sputtered ever so slightly to life. Something that had been cold and dead inside of his chest for far too long.

Because Sherlock Holmes didn't have _friends._ He had one, of course. But he had never really counted Molly in that category anyways even to begin with. Lestrade was like a father figure to him, and while he also undoubtedly cared for Sherlock, it was different. And then there had been Myc, but well… he grimaced internally. Yes, Sherlock didn't exactly _do_ friends.

After all, the other children had always been too terrified of him.

But now, here was an ex-Stormtrooper who had known Sherlock all of a week's time, and yet not just wanted, but actively proclaimed that Sherlock was his best friend. He had seen Sherlock at his absolute _worst,_ and witnessed the disgusting darkness that plagued his very being.

And yet he stayed, more determined than ever.

And for the first time in his life, Sherlock felt a twinge of regretful melancholy strike a chord in his chest. Because he realized that perhaps, _perhaps,_ if he had known John as a child, _truly_ had a friend when he needed one most, a steady anchor to balance his and Molly's fierce passion, then perhaps he would've learned to control his anger better. Perhaps time would not have been lost.

Sherlock tucked such a thought away, aware that it was useless to dwell on the past when the future was all that could be changed.

Besides, John was his friend _now_ , and that was more than Sherlock could've ever expected happening.

He gave a little smile of his own. "I know," He replied to John's confession.

"Good," The shorter of the two gave a tight smile, though the tension had eased from his shoulders. "Now let's go save your girl and put this war to an end."

He turned to head back out to the hall, but Sherlock cleared his throat to halt him.

"You're one of my best friends too, you know," He felt vulnerable, but for the first time in his life he realized that vulnerable could be okay.

So long as you had the friends to cover you when necessary.

John's smile lost the tightness around the edges and his eyes finally crinkled around the corners. "I know," He parroted Sherlock's earlier statement back to him. "Now we really should get going, lest Mary castrates us on sight."

"Force forbid," Sherlock agreed, following after John, his staff left behind in the room.

After all, he had no use of it.

For he already had the familiar presence of a friend with him.

/

Mary slid into the pilot's seat, the familiar leather creasing under her weight. She took a deep breath to calm the racing of her heart, her fingers dancing over the familiar pattern of the controls as the ship was cleared for take-off.

John cleared his throat beside her as the affirmative crackled over the ship's intercom. "I guess that's the go ahead then."

Mary didn't respond as she lifted the ship off the ground, and then sent it whizzing from the hangar before she could question the mess that they were flying straight towards. Her voice was a tad too sharp when she barked: "Do you have the coordinates?"

John stiffened ever so slightly before leaning forward and typing them into the console without a word. Mary closed her eyes and let out a fraction of a sigh.

"Sorry," Her tone was softer, though her knuckles were still white as they clenched at the controls. "I suppose I'm just nervous."

She chanced a glance over at the ex-Trooper who gave her one of his roguish smiles in return. "I'd be more concerned if you weren't."

As the ship finally left Crait's atmosphere and the startling whites and reds and blues of the planet muted into the deep navies and formidable blacks of space, Mary engaged the hyperdrive, sending the ship hurtling towards the Finalizer and their doom.

"I'm honestly a little surprised," She broke the silence once the stars started streaking by. "I would've thought you'd have been a little more hesitant to return to the Finalizer."

John let out a dry chuckle. "Believe me, if I was following my gut instinct right now, I would be on the other side of the galaxy building an inconspicuous and _safe_ life away from the First Order."

Mary felt some of her nerves bunch over to make room for her amusement. "I can hardly see you doing anything inconspicuously." Her eyes landed on the pale-yellow scarf that he had hanging atop his leather jacket. Not necessarily a bad look, but it certainly drew attention.

John didn't notice her amused look, busy ensuring that nothing on the console was demanding immediate attention. "Yes, well, believe it or not, before I met Sherlock, I led an incredibly boring life."

Mary went back to her own controls. "So why do you stay? Why not leave?"

Her questions caused John to finally hesitate. "Because the first people who really bothered to treat me like a person, are here," He looked over and caught her eye. "So you can bet your units that I'm going to stay here too."

Mary grinned. "Even though it isn't safe or inconspicuous?"

John shrugged, a smile tugging at his mouth as well. "Even though it isn't safe or inconspicuous," He reiterated before he raised his eyebrows in seriousness. "Though I'm heavily advocating for us to start one after all this mess is over."

"Us?" Mary's heart fluttered, even as she fought to give him a cocky grin. She was rewarded when the ex-Trooper's cheeks and ears flooded red, his eyes suddenly focused on the console.

"Yes, well, if you're, um, interested, that is."

Mary's grin softened into an honest smile, and she found her hand reaching out and stilling John's. "I am."

John hesitantly looked up, his features still red though his smile was brighter than starlight. "Good. Yes, well," His eyes flitted back to the console. "Now we have a reason to get out of this disaster. Some hope to spur us on."

"Hope?" Mary couldn't help but tease. "I thought you believed that hope wasn't enough to win a war."

"I didn't," John admitted, then his eyes caught Mary's again. "But someone told me it can be if we believe it to be."

Mary grinned as she focused back at the task at hand.

They _would_ make it through it all, she promised herself. They'd kill the Supreme Leader, destroy the First Order, and re-establish peace in the galaxy. And then after they would build a life together. Them and all the rest of their mish-mashed broken family.

 _That_ was a hope that would one day become reality.

/

"Do you mind?"

"Sorry."

Sherlock fought the rise of irritation as he pulled the edge of his cloak out from Lestrade's boot. The older man continued to look confused before ultimately deciding that Sherlock had the right idea sitting on the floor, and immediately followed suite.

It took him a solid two minutes of shuffling and readjusting before he found a relatively comfortable position between the gap in the crates that they had folded themselves into. The silence that followed was almost painful.

It wasn't until they felt the ship jolt into hyperdrive that Lestrade finally broke the quietude.

"Can I ask you a question?"

Sherlock knew, he _knew,_ that he needed to work with Lestrade if they wanted any hope of succeeding, and that sarcasm and insults were not going to help the issue. Still, he couldn't help himself with replying: "You just did."

He could practically _feel_ Lestrade's eyeroll.

And then despite Sherlock's frostiness, Lestrade continued forth anyways, in typical Lestrade fashion.

"How did you find balance?"

Sherlock tilted his head ever so slightly as he considered the question. In all honesty he had been expecting such a question from Lestrade since he had first stepped foot on the sad excuse of an island that the former Jedi had been living on. Now that he was actually faced with it, however, he found an answer not directly forthcoming.

"I didn't," He eventually admitted. "But I realized that my issue didn't lie in balance but rather in how I viewed the Force."

Sherlock was faintly aware of Lestrade inclining his head ever so slightly in his direction. "To no longer be frightened by it?"

"Yes and no," His skin prickled slightly at the accusation that he was terrified of the Force, but he also knew that it was an unfounded reaction since Lestrade was right, unfortunately. "I realized that I was not a tool for it to use. To the contrary, the _Force_ is the tool which can be wielded for either good or bad. It's the intentions of the user that create the dark and light and not the other way around."

Despite the dim lighting, Sherlock could make out Lestrade's heavy frown. "I'm not quite sure I agree with you on that, Sherlock. I've never heard of someone claiming such a thing before."

Sherlock felt his teeth clench ever so slightly. "You don't need to agree with me. It's simply the answer to the question you asked."

"Sorry," Sherlock was only slightly surprised by Lestrade's sudden sigh. "I didn't mean to sound condescending or whatever. I just don't understand how it works."

The younger man shrugged in response, although it was a fairly uncomfortable action in the cramped space, and he was also fairly certain that Lestrade couldn't even see it anyways.

"Honestly I don't fully understand it myself," Sherlock admitted after a moment. "Good and bad, light and dark, they're just concepts that we associate with certain manifestations of the Force because those manifestations are generally powered by decidedly evil or decidedly good intentions. For example, we consider strong emotions such as passionate love and hate to be tied to the dark side of the Force. But in reality, it's what those emotions motivate the user to do that is truly evil. Just because one loves and hates does not mean that they have to let their actions control them. And just because one is calm and peaceful does not mean that they can't be harsh and cruel.

"Our emotions do not solely predetermine our actions, and the Force does not have a predilection to influence said actions. Rather, what we do is entirely of our own choosing, and the Force merely caters itself to aid the path we choose," He did his best to explain.

"But Sherlock," Lestrade suddenly sounded indignant. "What you're saying would mean that the reason the dark side comes so easily to you is because _you_ are a bad person and that is complete and utter bollocks!"

Sherlock let out a sigh at Lestrade's outrage. "But don't you see, Lestrade? I _am_ bad. I'm selfish and foolhardy and arrogant. _Those_ are the qualities that dictate my emotions, and then those emotions dictate my actions, the Force is merely an outlet at that point for my negative qualities to shape at will. My selfishness drove my love for Molly. My foolhardiness convinced me that nothing else mattered. And it was my arrogance that escalated that situation all those years ago," His eyes were distant and voice filled with resignation. "Despite what you say, at my core I _am_ bad.

"But that doesn't mean that I can't also be _good_ ," Sherlock suddenly looked up, determined to get his point across. "It doesn't mean that I'm not also _loyal_ and _honest_ and _determined._ Those are the traits that I can choose to focus on. Because it's my loyalty that has driven me to save Molly, my honesty that has allowed me to realize my faults and weaknesses, and my determination that will help us win this war.

" _Those_ are the qualities I can choose to let drive me," He was desperate now, needing the man who had once meant the world to him to understand. "All of us are good, and all of us are bad. You simply need to _trust_ me to be able to choose what's right. And," Here his breath caught in his throat, "If I _fail_ to do so, you also need to help _end_ me."

His bald statement reverberated in the belly of the YT-1300. Lestrade, however, unlike Molly, met his words head on. He met Sherlock's eyes in the dim light, and despite the pain in his eyes, and the weight on his shoulders, he nodded his head.

"Alright, Sherlock," His voice was resigned, with a hint of sadness lacing his words. "But only if you allow me one favour first."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "That being?"

"Your lightsaber."

Despite his reservations, Sherlock complied, his fingers deftly unclipping the familiar metal cylinder from his belt before holding the requested object towards his former Master.

Lestrade's fingers curled around the weapon and for an irrational moment Sherlock wondered if he was going to end him right there and then, despite everything. But then Sherlock pushed such a ridiculous thought aside in favour of wondering if this was the first time in six years that Lestrade had touched a lightsaber.

For a moment, both men stared at the weapon in Lestrade's hand, hesitating.

And then Lestrade struggled to stand up, and he gestured for the younger man to assume a kneeling position in the cramped space.

Sherlock's mouth went dry.

He hastened to comply.

And then he watched in disbelief as Lestrade ignited the vibrant blue blade.

" _We are all Jedi_ ," Something in the Force shifted at the ancient passage that Lestrade began to recite. " _The Force speaks through us. Through our actions, the Force proclaims itself and what is real. Today we are here to acknowledge what the Force has proclaimed."_

The air was thick with something old, as Lestrade hovered the blade first over Sherlock's right shoulder, and then his left.

"Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade's voice carried a strength that Sherlock remembered from his youth. " _By the right invested in me, by the will of the Force, I dub thee Jedi, Knight of the Resistance._ " He had slightly changed the wording to fit their situation better, but Sherlock found it unimportant in comparison to the admission he added on after. "I couldn't be prouder of you, son."

And then the brilliant blue hue was gone, and Lestrade proffered the handle to the newly titled Jedi.

"Rise," Sherlock did so, his hand taking the familiar metal that seemed heavier than it had been a minute before from his former Master's hand. "You are a Jedi, Sherlock. And I want you to always remember, no matter what you think, no matter what happens," Lestrade's eyes were serious, "You will be a _great_ Jedi. But more importantly than that, you are a _good_ man."

Sherlock fought the prickling sensation behind his eyes, as he offered Lestrade a small smile.

"Thank you," He clenched his lightsaber in his hand, realizing it held a whole new meaning for him. And then he found himself saying the two words that he never thought he'd revere with sincerity ever again: "Master Lestrade."

/

Some moments in history shape the lives of but a few.

And sometimes a few lives can shape a moment in history.

/

The throne room was unnaturally silent, and nearly empty save for two figures in the center. One sat hunched upon the massive throne-like chair, hidden in a billowing black cloak, power oozing from its very being. The other was laying prostrated on the floor, swathed in black and deep in meditation.

Something in the Force shifted. The Supreme Leader inclined his head.

"My brother is truly foolish," The harsh rasp shattered the eerie calm, dripping with unimagined darkness. "I trust you know what you must do."

Molly could feel the horror before her rifling through her thoughts like paper, crooning in sickening pride as he observed the monster he had formed in his likeness.

Her body was weak. Her mind even more so after being the playing ground of her Master. It mattered not though. Pain made her strong. And _anger_ would vanquish weakness.

Phantoms flashed before her unseeing vision. Whispers of stolen touches. Horrified screams of victim after victim after victim. And crimson, _crimson_ red.

 _You foolish, foolish man._

Memories that had been viciously twisted and malformed into ugly half-truths and lies. Into motivation and _hurt_.

Molly raised her skeletal looking face to the one man who had taught her to make it into something _more._

"I do," Kylo Ren replied monotonously, her stance rigid in determination. "I will not let you down, Master."

/

They came out guns blazing.

Mary practically crashed the YT-1300 into the Finalizer's hangar, dropping out of hyperdrive dangerously close to the hulking ship in order to evade immediate detection. As a result, the landing was more than a little rough, and John may or may not have let out an undignified screech as the ship bounced and skittered to a stop in the hangar, sending Stormtroopers and First Order officials alike ducking for cover.

Mary laughed in typical Mary fashion, as though it was nothing more than an exciting game that they were playing. John could already hear the lecture that Sherlock would undoubtedly give them once the whole mess as done and over with.

The ship had barely even shuddered to a halt when Mary unclasped her seat belt and bolted for the ship's platform, blaster at the ready. John, despite his better judgement, was only a moment behind.

They emerged into smoking chaos. Mary had managed to hit nearly every ship parked in the hangar, and several were on fire while quite a few others were smoking bits of unrecognizable metal. Stormtroopers were scrambling under the confused orders being shouted, and an alarm had been triggered, bathing the hangar in a red hue as a siren wailed throughout the ship.

John belatedly realized that the damage to their own ship was no better off, and that if they didn't succeed it was highly unlikely that they'd be able to use her as a getaway vehicle.

His eyes met Mary's as the First Order personnel finally registered their appearance.

"Onwards?" He offered, and despite the circumstances the slightest of smirks tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Mary returned the sentiment with a full-blown grin. "And upwards," She agreed.

Then, together, the ex-Stormtrooper and the Resistance Pilot ran towards their deaths.

/

They almost got squashed when the ship suddenly lurched in every which direction and the crates that they were squeezed between decided to unanimously fall at the change in velocity.

Luckily, Sherlock's reflexes were getting stronger since he had reconnected with the Force, and he managed to stop the crates mere inches above their heads and held them there while the commotion went on, his arm thrown around Lestrade to pin the both of them to the floor.

It was only when the ship stopped moving that he dared to place the crates back into their places as he released his hold on Lestrade.

"That would've been a lot easier if you had just opened yourself up to the Force again," He couldn't help but grumble as he stood up and tugged his cloak back into place.

"Just be glad I showed up to help in the first place," Lestrade sassed back, pulling his blaster from his belt and motioning for Sherlock to follow just as the sounds of blaster fire broke out near the hull of the ship, before quickly moving away. "Come on, let's get going before someone decides to check the cargo."

They managed to duck out of the ship with relative ease, since John and Mary had garnered the attention of nearly everyone in the hangar. Sherlock delved into the Force and shrouded their figures to any curious eyes who happened to glance in their direction, and by some stroke of chance they didn't run into any droids.

By the time they had made it to an off-shoot hallway, Sherlock was vaguely aware of a prick of sweat forming on the nape of his neck. Panic rushed through him head to toe when he realized it was due to his Force exertion – between catching and holding the crates in the ship, and then cloaking himself and Lestrade, he could already feel a light sense of fatigue settling in. The Force was a muscle he hadn't used extensively in a long time, and he only now just realised how out of habit he was.

Pushing through it, Sherlock gave his head a slight shake, instead pausing for a moment to open himself up to the Force even more, mind latching on with relative ease to the one he knew better than his own.

He opened his eyes when he realised that she was waiting for him. That _they_ were waiting for him.

"This way," He gestured for Lestrade to follow, as he used the bond with Molly as a map through the Finalizer.

Fatigued or not, the final battle was at hand. And Sherlock would be damned if he lost.

/

John had barely seen Sherlock's cloak swish down a hallway and out of sight when his eyes caught Mary's. They had run to the far end of the hangar and while they had held the element of surprise and had gotten off quite a few good shots to begin with, the Stormtroopers had quickly ordered themselves and were now gaining the upper hand.

He gave Mary an almost imperceptible nod.

Simultaneously, they raised their blasters to the sky and lifted their other hands. "We surrender!" John struggled to shout before any other blasters were aimed at them.

He watched as one of the Captains of the unit signalled for the firing to halt.

And then he felt the blood drain from his face as the command came a moment too late and a shot rang out point blank in front of him.

It was bizarre, really. John Watson had prepared himself for the inevitability of death when he had signed up as Sherlock's friend. But now that he was there, _literally_ staring down the barrel of his doom, time seemed to slow to the point where it was almost at a stand still.

His eyes zeroed in on the blaster shot, hands coming up futilely. Mary screamed and the Captain cursed and John closed his eyes-

-And waited.

Breath caught in his chest, blood pumping through his veins, it took him a moment to realize that time hadn't stopped, and some how he wasn't burnt to a crisp by a blaster bolt.

He dared to open his eyes in the silence.

And there, a mere few inches from his outstretched palm, was none other than the bolt. _Hovering in mid-air._

 _How?_

It wasn't possible. The only thing that could do that was…

John gulped, not daring to take his eyes from the blast of energy that was still dangerously close to him for fear that if he did it would zoom forth with all the righteous anger of a thousand suns and finish the grim mission it was sent forth to do.

Not believing his eyes (And not wanting to risk his head), John did the only thing he could think to do in the situation.

He flicked his wrist to the right.

And the blast of energy _zwoomed_ into a parked X-Wing thirty feet away.

The resounding sound from the impact had everyone flinching out of their frozen trances, Mary gaping in awe while John stared at his hand in disbelief. His eyes flicked up to the Captain's whose were narrowed in contemplation.

"Well this certainly changes the situation," John wondered if the Captain recognized him, and then realized that that hardly mattered with his recent revelation, especially when the Captain barked out: "Take them to the Supreme Leader!"

Any awe that John felt drained out of his system in a flash as his eyes met Mary's horrified ones.

This was very, _very_ not according to plan.

/

Molly Hooper hated herself.

It was a deeply rooted emotion that plagued her like a parasite and drained her of any hope. Every senseless murder, every heinous crime she committed, all of it was nothing more than another addition to her innumerable list of irredeemable actions.

It was almost funny that Sherlock thought that she was the good one. Could still make that decision to be good. In truth she yearned for that more than almost anything…

…But she knew it wasn't an option.

Hadn't been, since that horrible day at the Academy all those years ago. When she had been betrayed by those whom she had trusted dearly, and watched the boy that she had loved more than anything willingly lose his lifelong battle to the darkness.

 _For her._

To protect her. Because he loved her.

If anything, _that_ had to be goodness. Not giving into the darkness, but sacrificing one's life for another.

Perhaps with that reasoning she could also be considered good in some twisted way herself.

 _There is no goodness left in you, Molly Hooper,_ She berated her thoughts. _There's only hope that the darkness will reach its end._

She could still recall the day that she had spiraled into the nether with horrifying clarity. The hurt from the betrayal. The panic as she realized what Sherlock meant to do. And then the sheer _determination_ when she realized that she would've been damned had she let him give up so much for her.

She had promised to protect him. And she had done so the only way that she knew how.

The last thing she remembered was screaming and pushing and _pulling._ Somehow, she had siphoned the dark side of the Force that he had been channeling, welcoming it into herself and yanking Sherlock from its grasp.

And then she was drowning.

Suffocating on nothing. Choking on everything. Burning from the inside out, blood curdling in her veins as an inky voice whispered in her mind: _It seems we meet again, Ms. Hooper._

And then the world went black.

She lost herself to the rage and sorrow. Gave herself over to the pain and hate.

Later, she awoke to ashes and a sky as red as the crimson around her. Her lightsaber still clutched loosely in her fingers, her robe torn and bloodied.

And she was laying in a sea of bodies.

Hundreds of familiar faces, Masters and Padawans and _younglings_ alike. Friends and family that she had grown up with had stared at her vacantly from unseeing eyes as the world continued to go up in flame and smoke.

She had promptly leaned over to the side and puked.

She was still not sure how long she sat there, numb and unfeeling, drenched in the smell of her own sick and that of burnt flesh. When she dared reach out to the Force it was like a million bricks crushed her chest all at once.

Sherlock was _gone._

Along with all the other bright energies that had once surrounded them. Horror flooded her system as she realized the only reason Sherlock would be ripped away from the Force plane as all the others were, was if he was now like them.

Dead.

At her own hand, no less.

And that's when agony that she never had experienced before seared through her veins and made her cry out in shame and loss. She was aware of the darkness latching onto her pent-up negative emotions and twisting the Force around her, but what more could she lose?

As the last standing buildings crumbled into nothing around her, Molly Hooper finally realized that she was truly alone.

"Not quite, my dear."

The raspy voice came out of no where, and Molly Hooper looked up with an intensity that drove all her anger through the Force towards the horribly familiar voice, and lightening burst out of the air around her, directed to kill the wretched monster that had started it all.

Said figure, which had mysteriously appeared before her, merely raised a hand and redirected the lightening into an unassuming tree fifty feet away.

Molly stared in horror at her hands, even as the figure let out a raspy chuckle and said, "You're stronger than I ever realized."

And _that_ sparked Molly's rage once more.

" _You_ ," She seethed, getting to her feet and trying not to think about the limbs she was kicking out of the way. "This is your fault. _You killed him!_ "

Despite the multitude of bodies lying lifeless, the figure seemed to be aware of whom she was speaking of particularly. He looked up slightly, exposing the gnarled and twisted flesh of his face, and the equally ugly snarl mangling what was left of his lips.

"No, child, _you_ killed Sherlock Holmes."

All her rage, all her _pain,_ died with that simple truth. And she all but collapsed in front of the strange hooded monster, sobs wracking her body.

"Shh, child," The figure placed an unwanted hand upon her head, but she was too emotionally spent to care. "I warned you it would be too late. But that doesn't mean your story must end here. Come with me, and I will take your pain and make it strength. Come with me, and your memories will become dreams."

And so she had.

For with everything lost, the promise of forgetting was too tantalizing. With the acceptance of the darkness, came the absence of light. The absence of hope.

And forget she did. The Supreme Leader trained her in the ways of the Sith. Had her beaten and bruised. Memories twisted and murder committed. Defiled her goodness in every possible way until she became numb to it all, a blissed state compared to the agony that had once haunted her.

The monster of Sherlock's childhood molded her into Kylo Ren. And she had let him because she had murdered the good in her life. She had killed Sherlock Holmes.

Only now she hadn't. And as though she was waking up from a deep slumber, the dawning horror of her actions was finally beginning to thaw the numbness that she had built around her heart.

Yes, she still wished she could be good.

But how could one do so, when their actions had become so inherently evil? How could one do so, when the choice was no longer there to make?

/

They entered the throne room without resistance, which should have flagged Sherlock's instincts. As it was, he was too busy searching out the two figures at the end of the room to notice any warning bells going off in his mind.

"Brother mine," Despite the quietness of the words, Sherlock heard them loud and clear. "Back so soon?"

Sherlock was too busy staring at Molly to reply, however. She refused to make eye contact with him, her gaze solemnly directed towards the ground.

Lestrade spoke up instead. "I take it that you're Mycroft."

At the old Master Jedi's voice Molly finally flinched, before Sherlock watched her expression harden into steel as she raised her glare at the older man. The action caught Lestrade's eye, and whether he had been living in a land of denial or something else, the ex-Jedi flinched under the weight of her glare. "Molly."

Molly's gaze _dared_ him to move forward. "Lestrade."

 _Ah yes,_ The Supreme Leader had reverted back to his usual form of mental intrusion communication. _The famous Greg Lestrade, Master Jedi and Hero of the Republic._

"I am neither a Jedi nor a hero anymore," Lestrade's voice was a tad too honest for Sherlock's liking, but he brushed it aside as he strode forward.

"Mycroft," Sherlock barked the familiar name with an unfamiliar loathing. "We'll give you one chance to end this madness. Let the blood shed end here. Choose the light over the darkness."

The answering chuckle sent goosebumps prickling up Sherlock's arms. _Oh Sherlock,_ He hated, _hated_ the slippery voice as it pierced his mind once more. _Surely you realize by now that there is no such thing as light and dark. There is only_ power. _And_ I _am the most powerful one of all._

Sherlock would not be swayed. "There may be no light or dark but you can still choose to use such power for good or evil."

 _You are so much like our sister was,_ Both Sherlock and Lestrade jolted at the sudden change of topic. _So much wasted power. Wanting to be good despite the inherent badness that pervades your soul. Tell me, Sherlock, do you_ like _being weak? Nothing more than a frightened child who allows fear and selfishness and hate to lead his life? For you cannot pretend that you aren't just as bad as I am, coming here with the intention to slay your own flesh and blood in revenge. You_ aren't _a good person Sherlock Holmes. And living in denial will never get you anywhere in life. If you simply embraced the inevitable you too could be powerful._

"Is that what happened to our sister?" He snarled. "Did you corrupt her as you've corrupted yourself?"

Mycroft's answering smile was bone chilling. _No. But I tire of this conversation. If you will not join me then by definition you are against me,_ He made some sort of signal with the tilt of his head, and two unseen Praetorian Guards stepped forth from behind the throne. _But I assure you, brother mine, you shall not be for long._

And then the two Guards stepped forward into battle position.

And Kylo Ren stepped forward with them.

/

"This is bad. This is really, _really_ bad."

Mary let out an irritated huff as quietly as she could. "Repeating that phrase over and over is not going to help us, John."

"Oh no, it is, trust me," John was ranting to himself now, eyes wide and voice raising with each frantic word that escaped his mouth. "It's called 'stress relief' which I am very much in need of at the moment because if you couldn't tell, I'm a little stressed out due to the _wacky hullabaloo that just came out of my hands!_ "

Her eyes were going to be rolling out of her head at the rate that she was going. She settled for a terse glare while they waited in the cramped room for the officer who was to lead them to the Supreme Leader. "Oh, calm down, you drama queen. Nothing came out of your hands. But clearly you do have access to the Force which throws a wrench into this operation."

"A _wrench?"_ John hissed, unimpressed with how lightly Mary was taking it all. "Try a _kriffing wheelbarrow!_ We are so, _so_ screwed!"

"Get yourself together!" Mary finally snapped, stomping down hard on John's foot with her own and ignoring his sudden outburst of protest. "We do not have time for your complaining. Once that officer comes, we'll be led to the Supreme Leader which is in the _opposite_ direction of where we're supposed to be going. We have bigger problems than you freaking out over your new-found Force abilities."

Mary was certain that John was going to continue his rant, but fortunately – or rather, unfortunately – he never got the chance as the door slid open and some snooty looking General walked in. She eyed John disdainfully.

"JN-1871," She drawled in a Coruscanti accent. "Figures it's you causing all the commotion. You always were a sorry excuse for a 'Trooper."

John's face flushed scarlet as he glared at the woman who had once been his superior officer. "My _name_ is John Watson and I acted like a lousy 'Trooper because I never wanted to be one in the first place!"

"And yet here you are, JN-1871," General Anthea drawled on as though John hadn't interrupted her. "Back home at last. Granted, you have a bit of persnickety wear now, but it's nothing that we can't fix with a little conditioning _after_ the Supreme Leader deals with your insolence first, of course."

The General gave a shark-like smile, before pulling her blaster from her belt and gesturing to the door. "You first," She intoned with fake politeness. "You recall the way I trust."

Blaster to their backs, John and Mary had no choice but to comply. Footsteps as heavy as lead, they began their march towards death's door.

They had only gone about a hundred feet when Mary suddenly said while making vicious eye contact with John: "You will not take us to the Supreme Leader. You will take us to the brig."

John felt his eyebrows furrow at Mary's sudden outburst even as Anthea let out an annoying laugh and replied sarcastically with, "Whatever you say."

Mary wouldn't stop staring at John with wide eyes though, and it wasn't until she pursed her lips and gestured her head ever so slightly over her shoulder that John clued in.

 _The old stories about the Jedi and the Force._

If John could remember correctly… they used to say that Force users could impart their will on someone somehow. In fact, he vaguely could remember times when Kylo Ren would storm through the ship and yell " _Get out of my way!_ " and while of course everyone scattered automatically (Due to, you know, _self-preservation_ skills), there had been times when it had also felt like there was something _else_ also motivating them to move.

John gulped.

In a rather subconscious voice he all but mumbled, "You will not take us to the Supreme Leader. You will take us to the brig."

"What?" It was more than evident that General Anthea was reaching the end of her patience tether. "Either you shut it, or I'll shut it for you, JN-1871."

"His name is _John_ ," Mary all but growled at the other woman.

The General merely replied with a snarky, "I don't care."

But John had already filtered them out. If he wanted any hope of this to work, he needed to believe it himself. Ignoring what was happening around them, he repeated in a stronger voice: "You will not take us to the Supreme Leader. You will take us to the brig."

"I said shut-up!" General Anthea snapped, but it was lost on John who was delving deeper into himself, trying to drudge up the feeling that had allowed him to still and deflect the blaster bolt in the hangar.

He thought of his wretched childhood and adolescence, of being forced into mindless hours of strict training and conditioning, carved into the perfect tool to be used and discarded at will.

He thought of Mary, beside him. The Resistance Pilot who was snarky and sassy and _beautiful_ in a way that he couldn't describe. From the moment he had decided to break her out of the brig, she had continued to throw curveball after curveball after curveball at him, and each time she taught him a little bit more about himself; Pushed him to truly learn who John Watson was rather than JN-1871.

His mind flashed to desert sands and stuck-up Resistance Generals. Battles on Starkiller Base and countless hours travelling through space. He thought of the YT-1300 and Redbeard. Of meeting legendary heroes and fighting villainous nightmares.

Mostly, he thought of Sherlock. His first real friend. The first person to treat him as another human being, who was angry, and violent, and reckless, but was also loyal to a fault and true.

His _best_ friend, who had been slammed by the universe his entire life and drew the short end of the stick constantly and without reprieve. Who was much too young to have survived the horrors he had had to endure. The same friend who was counting on him now to get to the control room to shut off the automatic systems.

He _would not_ be another person to let Sherlock Holmes down. He would prove to be the true friend he claimed to be.

John took a deep breath. And then he felt something in the air _shift_ as he steadily repeated, "You will not take us to the Supreme Leader. You will take us to the brig."

Anthea paused.

And then in a bizarrely disassociated voice she reiterated, "I will not take you to the Supreme Leader. I will take you to the brig."

John was so surprised that it worked that he would've continued walking in the wrong direction had it not been for Mary's subtle elbow to the ribs.

"Nice one," She murmured under her breath, although the proud smile peeking through her nonchalant façade was more than visible. "We may make it out of this yet."

/

 _It is a pity that Master Lestrade refuses to open himself up to the Force,_ Mycroft's voice crowed in Sherlock's head. _You might've actually had a chance. Oh well, his mind might still be useful to me yet._

Sherlock was startled by Lestrade crying out and clutching at his head, his knees sinking to the floor as he began muttering over and over, clearly caught in his memories of the past as the Supreme Leader rifled through his thoughts.

The younger man gritted his teeth at the action, but shook it off knowing that there was little he could do for Lestrade at the moment, his attention focused instead on the advancing guards and Molly. He pulled out his lightsaber and turned it on, the pale blue hue bright against the blacks and the reds of the throne room.

The guard to his left lunged first.

He brought his blade up to parry the crackling energy of the vibro-voulge, his body working more on instinct than training. As he ducked to avoid the tail end of the weapon, the other guard dodged forward with a Bilari electro-chain whip which Sherlock barely managed to knock out of the way.

His heart was pounding as he opened himself up to the Force, anticipating each lunge and swing that the two guards attacked him with, twisting his body this way and that to fight both opponents at the same time. It was likely a good thing that he had spent the previous six years on Jakku, where he was at least forced to stay somewhat in shape due to the constant fights with the other scrappers.

That said though, the Praetorian Guards were no Jakku Scavengers. They fought viciously and with a precision that denoted years of practice. It was mere fluke that Sherlock finally managed to get a direct hit on the first guard, sending him toppling at the sudden intrusion of energy through his sternum.

With one down the second was quick to follow, but the body had barely hit the ground when a sudden blaze of crimson light came swinging for his head.

He barely blocked Molly's swing in time, the energy hissing mere inches away from the tip of his nose and his wide eyes.

 _It's fascinating,_ The snake was back in his head as he fought against the hurt and focused on deflecting Molly's attacks. _How easily one's resolve can be solidified with a simple tweak of thought._

And _that_ waswhen Sherlock noticed the coldness of Molly's eyes, and the lifelessness of her attacks. Yes, she was fighting to kill, but there was also a distinct lack of will behind her attacks.

Mycroft had done something to her. Likely rifled through her memories like he was doing now to Lestrade, though he had probably twisted some that weren't to his liking.

Sherlock saw _red._

And then he took a breath and immediately cleared his vision as he blocked another upswing of Molly's.

He _could not_ lose control. Not here. Not now.

Instead, he reached out to Molly across the Force.

And he came upon a wall.

/

On the Force plane, Sherlock stared at the sudden looming construction before him that had most _definitely_ not been there the evening prior. It was some sort of mental block, undoubtedly put up by his brother once he had found their bond.

Sherlock was actually surprised that Molly had managed to hide it for so long in the first place.

As though summoned by a mere thought, the essence of Mycroft appeared beside him. Sherlock knew from years of study that it wasn't physically possible to interact with people on the Force plane, but all that knowledge still didn't stop him from taking a step back.

On the Force plane Mycroft wasn't even recognizable, being that his appearance was merely an illusion given to him while he interacted in the other dimension. Unlike the burnt remains that Sherlock had become used to, there on the plane Mycroft looked like an older version of the image that his little brother remembered. He was dressed in finely embroidered material, and his hair was styled perfectly to the side. His aquiline nose and high brow were unmarred, though his eyes that could cut glass remained the same.

"Yes," Here his brother's image was able to speak normally, without the wheezes and rasps that plagued his physical body. "I was amazed myself at how long she kept your bond hidden from my constant perusal of her mind. It must have been sheer tenacity that allowed her to do so. It matters not though, for as you can see, I've taken care of it."

Sherlock had tuned his elder brother out, however, his hands already pounding on the wall which shouldn't have existed. It cut straight through his bond with Molly, and unlike everything else on the Force plane, it was solid and real.

"There's no point in trying, Sherlock," Mycroft continued, even as the younger man began beating the wall with his fists. "She's no longer yours."

"I don't care if she's mine," Sherlock snarled, fists never halting. "As long as she's no longer _yours_."

/

While Sherlock mentally battled the barrier, he physically was on the receiving end of Molly's attacks, and doing worse for wear. Having to split his concentration between the Force plane and himself was more than physically draining, and it was showing as his footwork rapidly became less precise-Jedi-training and more desperate-Scavenger-fighting style.

Lestrade was still groaning unhelpfully on the ground behind him.

Which was of course why his life had to get even more difficult than it previously was, as another set of Praetorian Guards appeared from behind the throne, and assumed a battle position before charging into the fray.

/

Getting away from the General was surprisingly easy.

Figuring out the circuit work for the automatic systems was unsurprisingly not.

While Anthea had led them in the bizarre haze that John had put her in towards the brig, Mary had quickly jumped the other woman from behind and in no time she was out cold and her blaster was safely in Mary's steady hands. John had taken unnecessary pleasure in shoving his ex-Superior into the trash compactor before they made a beeline for the automatic systems room.

Now, ten minutes later, they were staring at the room full of switchboards and little flashing lights, both grossly out of their depth.

"Perhaps if we just destroy the switchboards it will work," Mary suggested, blaster already coming up and taking aim.

John let out a yelp as he reached out for the blaster. "Don't!" He whisper-shouted despite the fact that they were alone, as he all but yanked the weapon from her startled grasp. "If the switchboards suffer damage and the proper sequencing isn't enacted then the automatic defense system will trigger."

Mary raised her unimpressed brows. "Isn't that what we want?"

John let out a sigh. "Yes, but if the system is triggered by damage then it not only commences the automatic defense system but it _also_ sets of an alarm that is sent to every First Order operation. We might have a couple of the big fish left in the Finalizer, but the others will be warned before we'll even have a chance to leave the ship, and some might even come to aid the Finalizer in a desperate last stand-off. And if Sherlock hasn't gotten rid of the Supreme Leader by that point…" John trailed off, grimacing at the reality.

Mary finished the thought for him. "Then we're dead men walking."

"Exactly," John said. "Which is why we need to trigger the automatic defense system manually."

The Pilot let out a noisy breath of air. "Ok then. But since it's more complicated than you expected, how exactly do you plan to trigger it manually without sustaining damage or accidently setting the alarm off?"

John gave a hopeless sigh, before he set his shoulders determinedly. "I propose that we start looking for a manual. And fast."

/

 _Pain._

Lestrade had forgotten the familiar hand of his age-old friend. As Mycroft Holmes rifled mercilessly through his memories however, he was forced to become reacquainted with it.

 _Flashes of light. Screams of agony._

It simply wouldn't _stop._

He could feel the sticky figures tainting his memories and trapping his consciousness in some twisted form of reality, but without the Force he was nothing. Without the Force, he was merely a man.

A man who had unintentionally caused the deaths of hundreds.

Perhaps he deserved this. The eternal pain. The cries. The horror.

He watched stupefied as his years of raising Sherlock passed by in the span of a single breath. Years of emotions ransacked his body; Smiling as a little boy with wide blue eyes looked up at Lestrade in pride for finally having found balance. Exasperation as the same little boy grew older and his quips grew sharper and his penchant for stubbornness knew no bounds.

Sadness, as he realized the little boy was growing up without friends aplenty, bullied and harassed by those who should've been his closest companions.

Shock, when he realized that his little boy was not so little anymore, and at some point had fallen in love with his best friend.

Absolute _terror_ as he witnessed the lengths that the child he had raised as a son was willing to go to in order to protect the one that he loved most.

And then there was the shame.

Disgust at his actions, loathing of his behaviour. Mortified of all he had lost. For years he had berated himself and his lapse of judgement, reliving the terror of that evening over and over without remorse.

Sherlock had needed support. Sherlock had needed a _father._

And he had given the boy neither.

Forget deserving – he ought to have been _condemned_ for his actions.

He was vaguely aware of fighting going on around him. The telltale swish of energy through the air. The slightest whiff of something burning. But whatever Mycroft – whatever the Supreme Leader – was doing to him, he could not find the strength within himself to break free of the mental torture.

He heard Sherlock let out a grunt as something clattered, and Lestrade simply _knew_ that if he didn't act soon, everything they were fighting for would be for naught.

Perhaps he deserved the torture, but Sherlock Holmes most definitely did not deserve to lose. Focusing on that one thought, Lestrade _pushed_ back against Mycroft.

Forget his vows, his promises, and oaths.

Lestrade would stand firm for the little boy who had once meant the world to him.

Even if it was the last thing he ever did.

/

In the throne room, Sherlock was doing very, very badly.

With his attention split between the fight and his Force Bond with Molly, he didn't stand a fighting chance on his own. Molly had momentarily stepped back in her attacks as the two Praetorian Guards kept him busy, but if he didn't figure out how to get through to her soon, his momentary relief would not last long.

In the end, it was his own stubbornness that did him in.

Mentally chanting that he was strong enough to keep up with the attacks despite the fact that he most certainly was _not,_ Sherlock didn't have the energy to pay attention to his form. As a result, his right elbow clumsily was left out of position at the tail end of one of his blocks, causing a solid hit to the arm from one of the guards to loosen his hold on his saber.

In the next moment, the blue was extinguished and Sherlock's lightsaber went clattering to the ground, stopping next to the ugly throne where the Supreme Leader was watching the events unfold with an unsettling grin.

Weaponless, Sherlock barely managed to duck in time, the vibro-voulge of one of the guards skimming too close to his head for comfort.

Panicking, his body went on Jakku survival mode as his foot swung out to catch the guard closest to him, sending him to the ground.

Somewhere in his head, the Jedi part of him was shouting to use the Force to reach for his weapon.

But a much larger part that had witnessed first hand dirty fights in old wrecks of starships was muddling any useful thoughts. He grabbed the vibro-voulge of the fallen guard, the shape familiar enough to his staff that the Scavenger part of him was able to relax slightly in ease.

It lasted about a half a heartbeat before he was bringing the voulge up to block the oncoming attack of the other guard.

Which was, of course, when Molly had to join the onslaught as well.

In his haste to stop the lightsaber from separating the top half of his body from the bottom, he forgot about the body of the fallen guard, and his foot went out from under him. His eyes widened and his breath got caught in his throat, but it was like he was a child again and unable to control the Force.

He hit the ground hard, vision slightly blurry.

It was mere reflex that had him bringing the voulge up to block the lunge of the guard. He blocked each attempted swing desperately, his grip on his temporary weapon weakened due to the awkward position and constant assaults.

His head lolled to the side slightly, and his eyes caught on the handle of his saber.

Trying to fight down the panic, trying to regain some semblance of control, Sherlock reached his hand out.

He was a dead man if he couldn't rely on the Force.

 _Please._

The handle twitched and the blade went flying.

…Right past Sherlock's hand, and into Lestrade's waiting one.

/

When the handle connected with his palm, it was as though he could see the whole world again anew.

The Force rushed through his senses, overwhelming the disgusting presence of the Supreme Leader in his mind and flushing the vile bug out. He gasped as the world turned, and within the same breath everything went from dull mutism to startling clarity.

Jedi Legend Lestrade was back.

And he wasted not another moment.

/

 _Scritch. Scritch. Scritch._

Stones fell silently, giving way to more beneath.

Sherlock's hands felt bloody, despite the impossibility of such a thing on the Force plane. But he could not stop. His fingers scratched themselves to nothing and his hands yanked at the never-ending wall.

Time was running out. He couldn't afford to pause.

 _Scritch. Scritch. Scritch._

/

Despite the blinding light, Sherlock could not drag his eyes away from the sight of his blade in Lestrade's hands coming into contact with one of the guard's electric chains. Sparks flew and the heat seared dangerously close to Sherlock's face, but still he looked on in awe.

Lestrade was back.

And Sherlock's hopes _soared._

With Lestrade back, _properly_ back, he'd be able to focus more intently on getting through to Molly. They might actually have a shot at winning.

Grin splitting his features, his hand tightened around the vibro-voulge as he sprung to his feet to help.

/

Some things in life never go as planned. But more importantly, some things are simply not meant to be. The timing that one believes to be perfect is faulty, the decision one feels is certain is tentative.

And the people we believe to be the heroes, are not.

/

Sherlock twirled the vibro-voulge around in an altogether over-dramatic manner, his adrenaline momentarily boosted at the potential prospect of actually _winning._ Lestrade wielded his blade beside him, making quick work of the one guard unfortunate enough to be in the older man's vicinity.

The once-Padawan had forgotten why Lestrade had been _the_ Jedi Master, but as his eyes followed his once-Master's steady movements he couldn't help but remember. In his element, Lestrade was lethal, deadly.

He disposed of the one guard with frightening speed, forcing the other to abandon his plan of attacking Sherlock, and instead opting to choose to whirl on Lestrade as his comrade fell to the floor dead.

Sherlock took the unexpected moment to rally his mental forces once more while simultaneously allowing himself a small breather.

Lestrade's face was sober and determined, his strikes harsher than Sherlock remembered. He was cold, detached.

His blade surged through the unfortunate guard's chest with a heavy thrust.

And Sherlock realized with utter horror what was going to happen the moment before it did.

/

 _Scritch. Scritch. Scritch._

He was _so. Damn. Close_.

But unfortunately, not close enough.

/

Lestrade would be damned if he let Sherlock down. Sherlock, the child with bright blue eyes who once looked at Lestrade as though he was the universe. Sherlock, the son he had let down in the most horrendously unforgiveable manner.

Well, he would do his best to stand strong for him one last time. Even if it wouldn't make up for all the wrongs he had previously committed against the boy – nay, _man_.

Because Sherlock was a great man, despite what Lestrade had once feared. In fact, despite life constantly spitting him in the face, Sherlock had become a _good_ man.

And he didn't deserve to lose that due to Lestrade's mistakes.

Perhaps that was why Lestrade had entered an almost dangerously indifferent craze as he swung at anything red. As he allowed his emotions to blindside him in his desire to save his son.

He yanked the saber from the chest of the second guard, and with blind foolishness whirled to strike deadly and true at the next closest red target.

 _Kylo Ren._

She wasn't prepared. The shock of her once-Master crossing blades with her was too startling despite the amount of times she had imagined watching the light drain from the older man's eyes.

Her lightsaber went flying.

He raised Sherlock's in the final blow.

" _No!_ " Sherlock's sudden shout jarred him just enough from his haze to realize what he was doing, the type of man he was about to become.

The blade stopped a mere fraction of an inch from his former student's neck. Their eyes met, hers wide in disbelief, his wide in horror.

Too many of his students had died as a result of his actions, his cowardice. How could he possibly think that ending another would make things right?

What had he become, that he dared to stoop so low as to even entertain such thoughts?

He flicked the lightsaber off in disgust.

And that was when the vibro-voulge suddenly pierced his chest from behind.

/

Too late, the wall fell.

And Molly Hooper was finally free.

/

Sherlock's world was fractured.

He couldn't breath, couldn't blink, couldn't move. All he could see was the crimson blade protruding from a funny angle, and Lestrade's momentary confusion as his gaze was drawn to the very unnatural addition to his chest.

The Praetorian Guard that Sherlock had failed to notice – _failed to stop_ – stood steadfastly behind Lestrade, as cold and unmoving as the blade that he had thrust into the former Jedi Master's back not even a moment prior.

Lestrade met Sherlock's eyes.

In that moment, his confusion changed to something almost akin to relief. And Sherlock heard as clear as day the last thing that Lestrade had told him before they had come.

 _I couldn't be prouder of you, son._

He smiled one last time at Sherlock as though he knew what Sherlock heard, before the guard savagely yanked the blade out of Lestrade's chest, and Sherlock felt as though the blade had been brutally ran through his own.

For a moment, the galaxy held its breath.

And then Lestrade's body tumbled to the floor, dead.

/

The moment the world came back into focus, was the moment the vibro-voulge came to a halting stop three inches from the end of her nose.

Molly gasped as her memories swam, and she tried to make sense of the world around her. Her eyes followed the tip of the gleaming red blade, and for a moment, her mind could not connect the partial blade and the chest that was unnaturally melded with it.

Her eyes looked up.

And her former Master's looked back.

She wanted to hate him. She _did_ hate him. He had _ruined_ her. It was because of him and his stupid meddling that Molly had had to keep secrets from the one person who mattered most in her life. It was because of him that she had felt as though she had had to turn to the dark side. And it was because of him that she now stood as a fractured shadow of the person she had once been.

 _It was all because of him._

And yet, despite the rage that flooded her veins, and the hatred that motivated her very being, Molly could summon none of it when she wanted to most.

She was tired. And she had despised Lestrade for a very, very, long time.

She just wanted to… stop.

As she stared back into Lestrade's eyes which seemed just as hollow as her own, she even found a morsel of pity niggling into her conscious as flickers of her childhood danced through her scattered memories. Fragments of laughter. Phantoms of family.

Lestrade's eyesight drifted away from her. She saw him relax almost infinitesimally. Something akin to a smile flickering contradictorily on his features.

And then the great Jedi Master, Hero of the Republic, Greg Lestrade, fell to the floor with the rescinding jerk of the blade. Dead.

Molly didn't dare to breath.

Her mind was still murky and her thoughts were thick – telltale signs that the Supreme Leader had gotten into her mind once more. Her gaze flickered around to the dead bodies of the Praetorian Guards around them, but before she could process it there was suddenly yelling and a flash of blue and the surprised grunt of the guard who had just previously stolen Lestrade's life.

He fell to the ground hard, and Molly looked up to this time meet the familiar eyes of Sherlock Holmes.

Except his gaze was slightly crazed, the pain and heartache clear as day on his face. He stared at her questioningly, his hand tight on his weapon just in case, breathing heavy.

And then a voice, so heart wrenchingly familiar that it wrapped all her broken pieces together in a blanket of comfort, pierced the dark haze of her mind.

 _Molly?_ Sherlock tentatively reached out across the bond, and she could see the wariness in his eyes and the hesitancy in his posture.

But then her eyes flicked to the second guard suddenly lunging behind him.

She responded to him by sliding an inch from his arm, and bringing her own blade up to parry the electro-chain. Sherlock startled as he processed the action, eyes widening as he realised that in his distraction, she had saved his life.

 _I'm here,_ She responded weakly, arm straining against the opposing force. _I'm here._

/

John and Mary were panicking.

Read: Mostly John was panicking.

It had been over five minutes and they were still as stumped as they had been before. Mary had taken to reading every single label for the switches (Luckily for them, Stormtroopers were bad at nearly everything, meaning that the labels for each switch was incredibly precise). Unfortunately, however, there was simply such a multitude of switches that she was still nowhere near finishing.

John was in a corner muttering to himself. Up until a minute before he had been reading the labels too, but then he suddenly stopped without explanation and took up an almost trance-like murmuring about the plan.

Mary was getting fed up with the useless play-by-play.

"This would go a lot quicker if you _helped_ , you know."

John blinked owlishly at her. Her vocal intrusion seemed to finally break him of whatever spell he was under, but then he opened his mouth and hollowly said something that Mary never expected to hear.

"I think Sherlock's dead."

Mary froze, the words on her label suddenly spinning. Then her head snapped towards John with horrified precision. " _What_?"

John gulped, a shaking hand coming up to card through his hair. "The, uh, Force, thing. It- it-" He shook his head in an attempt to gain control of his actions. "Someone powerful and important just died. It was as though the Force cried out for a moment before settling. I don't know how else to describe it."

Mary fought to keep control of her own panic. "But we don't necessarily know that it was Sherlock. Couldn't it have been the Supreme Leader?" She reasoned. "He's also powerful."

But John merely shook his head. "They were good in life. Otherwise the Force wouldn't have acted as it did. I don't know how I know that, but I just do."

The weight of his words was crushing, and Mary felt as though the room they were in had just shrunk several feet. "If he's dead… then we've failed. The Supreme Leader lives."

But John was already spiralling into grief, his having said his fears aloud allowing them to solidify into as good as reality in his mind.

"He was my best friend," His eyes were distant, ears unhearing. "I didn't know him that long, but he was my best friend. And now he's gone."

Mary was having none of it though, her grief doing the opposite and surging through her with new-found determination. She stepped forward and grabbed John's shoulders, giving his loose frame a good shake to snap him out of it.

"Listen to me," Her voice was steady, for which she was grateful. "Perhaps he is dead, okay? But that doesn't mean that we are. Not yet, at least. And I can bet every last unit I have that he wouldn't want us to give up now, you hear me? I believed in Sherlock Holmes," Here her voice did crack, ever so slightly, "And now, we must _live_ for Sherlock Holmes. You understand?"

Despite the haze that settled behind his eyes, John nodded ever so slowly.

"Good," Her bravado was slowly slipping away, so she turned around so that John wouldn't see. "Now let's get back to work."

/

There were only three remaining guards left.

The problem?

Sherlock was _exhausted._

Sweat threatened to drip from his brow into his eyes, and his muscles were quavering under the strain of keeping himself upright. With the mental pressure gone the moment that his Force Bond with Molly reconnected, he finally had the mental capacities available to assess his physical situation.

And it was really not good.

On top of it all, Lestrade was gone. Just thinking about the previous moments brought an ache to Sherlock's chest and sent rage flowing through his veins. Yes, he had had his fair share of problems with Lestrade in recent times. But that didn't erase the years of viewing him as a father, and the loss was almost too much to bear.

The only slightly positive factor to the ever-depressing scenario was the fact that Molly was no longer under Mycroft's influence. Whatever… _conditioning_ his vile brother had put her through seemed to have worn off, and he at least knew that he had managed to succeed on that one front.

It wouldn't matter though if they both died here.

Pushing his fatigue to the side and, perhaps foolishly, once again putting faith in his trust of Molly, Sherlock spun around to engage the one odd guard, as the second had joined the first in attacking their former trainer. Sherlock and Molly fought back to back, the familiar dance unforgettable between the two.

Despite his exhaustion, Sherlock couldn't help the thrill that ran up his spine at fighting side by side with his best friend once more. They were interlocking puzzle pieces, the push and pull of the tide. Completely one with each other.

 _I hope you know that you won't be able to win,_ The Supreme Leader's voice crept into Sherlock's head, and threw him off just enough that he only narrowly managed to parry the guard's attack. _No matter what you think, and no matter what you do, you will_ never _be good, Sherlock Holmes. You will never be a Jedi._

Sherlock grit his teeth at the onslaught against his morality. _Our sister struggled with the same problem. She, like you, desired to be good. All that potential wasted. All that power squandered by fear. It's why I had to intervene._

Sherlock wasn't sure how he knew, but Molly tensed behind him, no doubt privy to his brother's divulgences as well. For his part, Sherlock just focused on not getting decapitated as he fought the guard.

 _She screamed oh so very much,_ Mycroft's words had Sherlock's flesh prickling and his chest aching for the sister he couldn't remember. _But in the end, her power was mine. Extraction is a ghastly business – takes so much out of you. Unfortunately for her, she was too weak to survive the experience. Too terrified to try and fight back._

 _You, on the other hand, were absolutely delightful._

"Don't listen to him!" Molly suddenly shouted through gritted teeth, her back acting as an anchor for his own. "Remember what I told you, Sherlock. You're stronger than this!"

The Supreme Leader's sickly chuckle permeated the air around them. _She's right, of course. If you merely gave up this silly charade of goodness, you'd be able to make full use of the Force. It's what I tried to instill in you all those years ago. You weren't as receptive then. You can be now._

Despite the fact that the majority of Sherlock's attention was trained on not dying, his once-brother's words were piercing the tired fog of his mind and sparking his curiosity. "Receptive?" He managed to grunt while ducking an oncoming swing from the guard.

 _Oh yes,_ The glee in the Supreme Leader's voice was palpable at having caught Sherlock's interest. _You see, brother mine, I learned long ago how to twist and manipulate the Force to my will. But more importantly, I learned how to siphon it off of others. The easiest way to do so is to convince them to join the darkness themselves and then keeping them under my thumb. A few whispered doubts here, and some muttered dissent there, and you'd be surprised at how easily treacherous thoughts can spring up. That Moriarty fellow had been all too easy to control, along with all the other idiots at that fools Academy. Unfortunately, none of them were powerful enough for my liking._

 _Molly and yourself were, of course. I hadn't dreamed of getting Molly under my thumb, but you managed to frighten her just enough that in the end she came running into my open arms. I never did thank you for that, by the way._

Sherlock blocked, and parried, and tried to not let his emotions get the best of him.

 _You, on the other hand, managed to repress me despite my best efforts and despite your natural inclinations. To say I was surprised would be putting it lightly. Even with Molly's added shielding of you from a young age, I hadn't expected your… stubbornness to hold out._

 _In the end, I suppose you were so traumatised from what I did to you as a child that you subconsciously pushed against that which you craved most._

Through the Force Bond, Sherlock could feel Molly's hackles rising and her panic begin to spike, even as she swung harsher at the guard to her left. He was fairly certain that she had managed to relieve her attacker of an arm, but was too concentrated on his own guard to check.

"You're a vile, _vile_ beast, Mycroft Holmes," Molly spat harshly at the Supreme Leader.

 _Perhaps,_ Mycroft conceded. _But if so, then so are you. But you're distracting me from the best part of the story,_ His self-satisfied voice crooned. _I haven't explained to Sherly what I do when I can't convince someone to join me._

"The extraction," Sherlock deduced, his muscles beginning to go numb in pain, and his grip on his saber swaying dangerously.

 _Exactly. The extraction,_ Despite the hood and Sherlock's current concentration, he was somehow inexplicably sure that the Supreme Leader was smiling with his ruined mouth. _It's a process I learned whereby the user rips the Force out of another, if you will. I siphon the energy of their very being into my own, making me immensely powerful. Unfortunately, the weaker does not survive the process after having such a crucial part of the being removed. Our sister was gone without even so much as a fight._

"She was a child!" Sherlock couldn't help but feel a rush of rage for the sibling he could not remember. "How could you do such a thing?"

 _How could I not?_ The voice snarled in response. _To let so much power slip through my fingers… well, you didn't understand back then either. When you walked in on our last… session, you refused to listen to reason. I was unfortunately left with no choice but to commence extraction on you as well._

 _You, however, fought back._

Sherlock was losing the battle against his emotions as the events he couldn't recall were unfolded before him, causing a knot in his stomach to form as dread settled around his shoulders. With each word another nail was driven into the coffin of his hope. And with the trickle of anger growing steadily in his veins, the more the Force tightened around him like a noose, giving his actions a sharpness that he couldn't fight.

 _I was… unprepared, to say the least._

"You are good, Sherlock!" Molly's voice was fighting Mycroft's, even as Sherlock felt the once-familiar surge of darkness flood him.

 _You had so much power._

"The darkness does not own you!"

 _And so_ little _control._

"You are light!"

 _Your fear overwhelmed you._

"You must not give in, Sherlock!"

 _Even I could not stop you._

" _Your past does not define your present!"_

Sherlock blocked another swing from the guard, but was unable to block the most fatal blow of all.

 _And you sparked the fire that consumed our entire planet in the blink of an eye._

/

There were moments in life when the world stopped spinning. Disruptions to the norm that could steal the breath from your lungs and the life from your being.

Moments, when it seemed as though your entire world crumbled in the blink of an eye.

Sherlock Holmes was experiencing one such moment.

He had deduced that everything tied back to that one crucial moment that he could not remember from before Lestrade had found him. He had even considered the likelihood that he had somehow been the reason for the death of his family.

But to have such a fact confirmed…

And for it to be even worst than what he had imagined…

His mind flashed back to the snippets Lestrade had told him. _By the time that we arrived the entire planet was nothing more than ash and embers… The skies were gray and thick with smoke, and there was not a single living thing left alive… Thousands upon thousands of corpses._

He had done that.

In his anger, and hatred, and fear, he had done that. Killed thousands upon thousands of people. Burned them alive with his unchecked emotions.

Killed his family in a blinding rage.

And in that moment of realization, unbidden, a memory clear as day surfaced from the murk in his skull.

 _His father's gentle smile. His mother's loving kiss._

Both long gone, and all because of Sherlock.

And it was in that moment, as the fight raged on around him, that something irrevocably broke in Sherlock's chest.

The agony of the truth flooded his being.

And Sherlock Holmes was drowning once more.

/

The sudden swing would've taken Sherlock's head off.

Fortunately, Molly was hyper-aware of the situation and was having none of it. Even though her hands were full with the two guards on her end, unlike Sherlock she had been rigidly training for the past six years. Added to that was the fact that she hadn't been worn out before the fight had even begun. Therefore, it was only natural for her to use the Force to keep track of her environment around her.

Unfortunately, no matter how she tried, she hadn't been able to keep the Supreme Leader's lecherous words from reaching Sherlock. The horrid truth that she had learned over a decade before.

As she had predicted, he was not responding well to the news.

The turbulence over the Force Bond was clear as day as he struggled to come to terms with his responsibility in regards to his orphaning as a child. She felt his horror, his rage, his _despair_ as though it was her own, and then the parasitic ache that bloomed from his chest and threaded through his veins.

He was drowning in the truth.

And as such didn't raise his blade the block the guard's fatal blow.

Feeling her own rush of panic tighten like a noose around her neck, Molly used the Force to send her two guards flying back into the far wall, buying herself enough time to spin on her heel and dash in front of a dazed Sherlock to parry the blow.

She saw red as she felt Sherlock's stunned presence at her back and met the equally startled gaze of the guard through his visor.

He was dead before he even processed the change in opponents.

But Molly didn't have time to care, or think about how she had known him when they had been on the same side – which had only been mere minutes before. She didn't have time to recall his name or the fact that she had trained him and the rest of the guards now brutally slaughtered around him. _She didn't have time._

She spun on her heel once more, lightsaber tossed half-hazardly to the side, her hands coming up and clasping desperately onto Sherlock's limp shoulders as he stared at her with hollow eyes.

She couldn't help but feel the same desperate emotion arise similar to the last time that she had seen him drift so dangerously close to all which he so abhorred.

"Don't let him get to you, Sherlock!" Her voice was shrill from the panic, her grip crushing as she fought for his attention. "You were a child who was merely defending himself! It was hardly your fault what happened. You had no choice back then – but you have one _now_ ," There were tears running down her cheeks. When had that happened? "Don't give up everything you've worked for. Don't give up hope in yourself."

Then suddenly, the agony that he was projecting through the Force Bond ceased. Molly almost startled at the abrupt change in emotion.

When she met his eyes again, she was met with sadness. But even more importantly, it was framed with an unmistakeable determination.

"Molly," His baritone was a gentle and as unexpected as the caress upon her cheek to wipe her tears away. "You've always been my hope."

Then he kissed her.

And pulled away, turning for the last time to face the final problem.

Molly wouldn't have been so concerned, if his kiss hadn't felt in every way as though it had been goodbye.

/

"John! I think I found it!"

The ex-Stormtrooper bolted up at Mary's cry, successfully managing to bang his head on one of the overhanging Holo screens.

" _Kriff-_ " He let out a series of expletives as his hand came up to massage the tender spot, even as he moved closer to the console Mary was scrutinizing. "Which one?"

Fighting a look of amusement, Mary gestured to the label which had caught her eye. It read: _Manual Life Support._

"Do you think this is it then?" Mary nodded towards the switch.

John bit his lip. "Well it's the first one we've come across that has the words we need."

"Plus it's already been too long," Mary added. "We really don't have the time to keep looking. Either this is it or it isn't. Either way we've run out of time."

John let out a long sigh, even as he realized that Mary was right.

It was now or never. His friend – his _best_ friend – may have been dead, and for all he knew him and Mary were as good as dead themselves.

"For Sherlock Holmes," He muttered, more so to himself than Mary.

And then he flipped the switch.

/

Somewhere, at the other end of the throne room, a metal door slid shut over the entrance, sealing the occupants inside as the main lighting turned off and the red emergency lights flicked on.

A small part of Sherlock's mind took note of the changes, and couldn't help but let out the slightest breath of relief – John and Mary had made it. The Finalizer was on lockdown which meant that no communications could be sent or received and no one could travel within or out of the ship.

If he died now, he could die in peace, knowing that two of the most important objectives had been completed. The First Order would be in chaos, and Molly would be safe.

He wished he could say the same about himself.

But he knew that the monster that now stood before him, the one that had haunted his childhood and twisted his being into what he was today – his _brother_ – needed to be stopped at all costs.

And he was willing and ready to pay.

At some point, when Molly had stepped in to save his life again and pulled him from the waters of his mind ( _She was the only one who could. But more importantly, she was the only one who_ would.) the other two guards that she had thrown against the far wall had gotten up and rushed to take a defensive position in front of the Supreme Leader.

Figures. Sherlock had the sneaking suspicion that despite how powerful his once-brother was mentally, that he wasn't much of one for legwork. Probably couldn't use a blade if his life depended on it.

Which was exactly what Sherlock was counting on.

He was bone weary. But he was ready to fight till his last breath if that's what it took. He raised his lightsaber.

And he attacked.

Molly waited to the side, and though he could tell that she wanted nothing more than to enter the fray and end the fight, she refrained, for which he was ever grateful. This was now something that he had to face alone, and although she didn't like it, she respected it.

Mycroft was unnervingly quiet as Sherlock swung and slashed and battered his guards.

His muscles ached. His bones _screamed._ And yet he still kept fighting. Because he knew that even if he didn't make it out, so long as he put an end to the madness right here and now – _so long as he could make a difference_ – his friends would be alive.

And that would be enough good in the world, to balance out the bad.

One of the guards threw his electro-chain at Sherlock, and he ducked while swinging his saber wide at the legs of the other guard. He tumbled unceremoniously, his chest meeting the rest of Sherlock's saber on the way down.

And then-

 _Only our actions define who we are._

-a most terrifying thing happened.

The other guard froze, choking on nothing. And the next thing that Sherlock realized that it was _his_ hand outstretched, and _his_ will that was causing the guard to choke on nothing.

 _And he couldn't stop it._

One guard, dead at his feet. The other, choking mere inches away. And the Supreme Leader, watching it all impassively.

 _You know not of the power that lurks within him…_

Sherlock thought that he was going to puke. Because… Because-

 _Because he could not stop it._

As soon as he realized what his anger and fear were harvesting, he tried to pull back; Stop the Force from draining the life of his enemy. He didn't want to kill. He _didn't_ want to kill. _He didn't want to kill…_

But he already had.

Over, and over, and _over._

 _Goodness_ … was there really any goodness within him? Or had it all been a dream? Because in that moment – with the guard dead at his feet, his brother smirking inches away, and the final guard at his mercy – he didn't _feel_ good.

He felt _powerful._

And it _terrified_ him.

 _Sherlock!_ Molly suddenly yelled in his mind. _Stop it! You don't want to do this! You are good, remember. You are light!_

And then suddenly a flood of images – no, _memories_ – assaulted him through the bond, and he realized that they were Molly's.

They were seven, not quite best friends yet, and had snuck away from the mass of other children their age to play smugglers by their favourite tree in the gardens. She had tumbled from the tree, too surprised to use the Force to right herself, and had landed with a nasty thump on the ground, the skin on her knee scrapped badly.

Without a thought Sherlock had ripped the bottom hem of his tunic off and wrapped it around the wound, declaring her the captain now that she had the battle scars to go with the title.

And then they were nine, once more at their favourite tree, soaking up the dying daylight as the sun was sinking beneath the horizon. Molly was reading aloud from a tome the size of her lap, as Sherlock's fingers deftly braided her hair.

The next time they were twelve, and Sherlock had slid his pudding over to Molly despite it being the only real palatable thing on the menu that day, because he knew that she was unhappy about something, and wanted to see her smile.

Again at seventeen, when Sherlock wrapped her in his arms as she cried about the secret that she knew could ruin him.

And then at twenty, when he could still smile at her so blindingly innocently despite the darkness that he struggled against.

Sherlock gasped at the onslaught of half formed memories. All the little moments that Molly had deigned to keep locked away in her mind.

And they were all proof that Sherlock wasn't completely bad. That despite his actions, now and in the past, somewhere deep within him there was still _good._ He could be a good person, like Lestrade had once thought him to be.

And a good person did not twist the Force into something evil to kill with.

With that thought the spell he was under broke, and he closed the part of the Force that he had opened with malevolent intentions, breaking the choke hold he had had on the guard.

It was easy enough to finish him off with his saber in his weakened state, despite the grim knot that formed in his stomach as he realized that it was simply another life that he would have to add to the list of ones he had stolen.

The silence that followed the drop of the body was thick and oppressive. With nothing blocking the way, Sherlock turned to the Supreme Leader who sat a mere half dozen steps away from him on the throne.

He braced himself for his brother's attack.

And then he stepped forward to slay the monster once and for all.

/

Once, a long time ago, Mycroft Holmes had been a good big brother.

He was a very intelligent boy who knew how to get along with everyone, even when they were less intelligent than himself. He loved his Mummy and his Father, and he was an all-around wholesome child.

When Sherlock was born, he took personal pride in the little being that he could call a brother. He always put Sherlock's safety above his own, and not even their parents could separate the two.

People are not born evil.

And they most certainly don't become evil overnight.

In the case of Mycroft Holmes, it started with something inconsequential. It started with the birth of his sister.

Sometimes, a mere thought can be the flame that lights the wick of one's destruction. A hair's breadth of emotion; The faintest flicker of doubt.

The action of a mere babe reaching in curiosity for his new sibling rather than the one who held him dearest.

For it was in that moment, so many years previous, that the faintest flicker of sadness crossed Mycroft's mind, and the barest hint of jealousy followed. He had pushed it aside as illogical, of course, but it never fully went away.

He doted on Sherlock. But he never could quite accept when others doted as well.

And slowly, as the years rolled past, that once fleeting emotion grew into a turbulent parasite that the other boy allowed to flourish inside him. And he grew to utterly despise anyone who vied for his younger brother's attention.

To Sherlock, he was the greatest. To Sherlock, he was a _hero._ And when he was a hero, he felt _powerful._

He liked feeling powerful.

He had developed the Force at an unusually young age, but his parents had had no desire to send him off to study and become a Jedi. As such, he was forced to take matters into his own hands to understand the incredible power he had.

In his search to learn, he had come across an old man who had lived in the mountains behind their family home. The old man was powerful, and Mycroft was determined to become the same.

He ignored the whispered warnings to steer clear of the old Count. Closed his ears to his parents' forbidden tones.

The old man taught him many wonderful things. And each and everyone of them made Mycroft more powerful than he could dream.

And if he was the most powerful, then his brother would look to no other ever again.

The change was so subtle, that none thought to look. The shift so infinitely miniscule, that none could actually pinpoint when it happened.

Mycroft had once been caring, and happy, and loving.

But had become obsessive, and wrathful, and jealous.

By the time Sherlock was seven, the warped emotions were too much to bear. And the actions they produced were too evil to name.

It started with the old man. The old man who had gleefully twisted and malformed the once-innocent boy into a monster of his own making. Who had shown him the dark ways of the Force and the power that could be cultivated there.

Who had died in shocked surprise, when Mycroft Holmes realized that the true power wasn't what _he_ had, but what he could take from others. That was the moment that Mycroft had truly given into insanity. That was the moment that the Supreme Leader was truly born.

It was not long until the madness convinced him that if _he_ could never be powerful enough to hold Sherlock's adoration alone, then no one should be able to.

Yes, once Mycroft Holmes had been good too.

But in the end, he had chosen not to.

/

His knees threatened to buckle beneath his weight, and his brow was dripping with sweat, his saber dangling dangerously from fingers that were too tired to hold the weapon properly.

And yet despite it all, Sherlock Holmes stood tall as the darkness engulfed him.

The Supreme Leader didn't hold back, and it was more than obvious that his few moments reprieve when Sherlock had been fighting the last two guards had added a boost of strength to his already unfathomable power.

It was as though a storm of darkness had consumed the room, and Sherlock alone stood at its eye.

He collapsed to his knees as Molly, the guards, and the throne room were lost in the darkness, and only his brother sat before him, hood blown back, with all his grisly features bare to the world.

His face was twisted in sadistic satisfaction.

"Don't you see, Sherlock," His voice, though still raspy, was enhanced by the Force and echoed around Sherlock's pitiful stance. "You've been a fool to fight the darkness for so long. You could've had this power! We could've done this together!"

" _No._ " The word was clear as day despite the chaos swirling around them. Sherlock could feel the darkness trying to penetrate his mind and twist his fears into reality. "I am a Jedi. I do not crave power."

The Supreme Leader's snarl was visceral. "You are a _fool._ A weak, pitiful fool. And if you will not join me, then I will end you, Sherlock. This is your last chance!"

Every guilty feeling, every moment of doubt – it all crept to the forefront of Sherlock's mind in that instant. Every temptation, and every vice.

Sherlock summoned enough energy to get one foot beneath him a in a kneeling position, head coming up to make eye contact.

" _Never_."

The simple word brought forth such anger in Mycroft that the attack intensified. "Then _die_ ," He shouted in hatred.

And that was when Sherlock _screamed._

It felt as though every cell was being stripped from his body. Lightening flashed, and skin sizzled, and acid sludged through fiery veins.

But his mind-

- _Oh,_ his mind.

It _burned._

Images were yanked this way and that, his greatest fears were amplified tenfold, and reality was quickly spinning away into a mad hallucination of dread.

He was barely seven years old, and covered in ash, and soot, and _darkness._ Sobbing as he cried for his mother, his father, _his brother_ -

But none came to comfort him. They never came again.

( _And it was his fault. He knows that now._ )

He was nine, ten, twelve, and no matter where he turned the same look of fear followed him like a shadow. Students whispering as he failed time and time again to disconnect himself completely from the darkness. Masters flinching in fear every time he lost control due to his emotions.

( _"It's alright, Sherlock," Lestrade had comforted in hushed tones. "I promise that everything's going to be alright."_

 _But Lestrade was gone now._

 _And everything was far from alright._ )

At nineteen, madly in love with his best friend, but too discouraged by the Jedi Code and his own ineptitude with his feelings to figure out how to pursue it further. Suffering in silence until he _cracked_ and almost killed Moriarty – but more importantly, almost killed _Molly._

( _"You foolish, foolish man," She whispered as her fingers ghosted through his hair. "I promised I would never leave you."_

 _But in the end, she had._ )

Again, at twenty-one, shaking in terror as the only man he could remember as a father threatened to take the love of his life away, and his natural response despite _years_ of training, was to flee to the protection of the darkness.

( _"What have you done?" The shout was more of a whisper as Lestrade's eyes darted frantically between the two of them._

 _They had tried to insist that their love wasn't darkness._

 _Oh, how they had been wrong._ )

And finally at twenty-seven, body vibrating with murderous rage as he yearned for nothing more than to _kill_ the monster that stood across the ravine on Starkiller Base.

( _He needed to kill the monster, all right. He just hadn't realized that the monster was himself._ )

Memory, after moment, after image blurred before him as it was all yanked to nothingness. As _he_ was yanked to nothingness.

There was _so much darkness_. So much that he had done in his life out of selfishness, and fear, and _hatred._ He- He _couldn't_ do it. He was drowning in his errors. Floundering in all he lacked.

 _He-_

He wasn't a Jedi.

He _wasn't_ good.

With that final thought, the weariness in his muscles finally gave way, and the strength in his mind _snapped_ under the pressure. He began to fall-

( _It was better this way. The monster would finally be slayed. And the darkness would have nothing more to feast on._ )

-and then-

( _A gentle laugh. A caress of the cheek._

" _I love you, Sherlock Holmes."_ )

-from within the darkness of his mind, burst a single thread of _light_.

/

Sherlock gasped and his eyes flew open ( _When had they closed?_ ) as the thin thread of light tethered all that he was together and anchored him in the darkness. The slightest burst of strength wove between the tendrils of oil that surrounded him, and gave his body the strength to stop its descent and to push himself back up onto one knee.

He could feel the Supreme Leader's surprise even though his vision was still too blurry to make out the expression on his face. But Sherlock was too focused on the thread of light keeping him together to pay any heed.

It pulsed as it slowly wrapped through his mind and thoughts, chasing away the Supreme Leader's darkness as it pulled Sherlock's memories back together.

Yes, when he was seven he was alone because the situation had gotten out of control. But he hadn't been alone for long. ( _A face peering down with warm eyes. Lestrade's gentle hands pulling his shaking form into a much-needed embrace. "I've got you, son. I've got you."_ )

And perhaps as a child the others _were_ frightened of him, and rightly so. But there had always been one person who wasn't, and that was all that really mattered. ( _"So what if they avoid me?" Molly had retorted back with a frown. "I have you."_ )

Nineteen, running through the woods in tears, just wanting – _needing_ – to get away. And completely unaware that the person he was running from was also running after _him_. That she hadn't been scared off by his utter lack of control. That she refused to let him go.

( _"I love you," He found himself admitting. "And not in the way that a Jedi is supposed to love."_

 _She let out a small hiccup-laugh. "Sherlock, I've loved you that way for longer than I can remember."_ )

And there at twenty-one, watching the disappointment and horror fill Lestrade's face, he now also knew that those emotions were not how Lestrade died viewing him. That up until his final moments, Lestrade was truly his father.

( _"I couldn't be prouder of you, son_. _"_ )

Then once more at twenty-seven, as he had stared at the one that he had deigned his enemy, and the rage had drained from his being and was replaced instantaneously with disbelief and guilt.

And more than that, _hope._

(" _You foolish, foolish man. I promised I would never leave you."_ )

Yes, Sherlock Holmes had succumbed to the darkness and the hate many times over the course of his life. But what was important was that he remembered that every single time, he had managed to get back up. And every single time, the light had been there with open arms. In Lestrade. In Molly.

In himself.

Slowly as each memory flew past, the frail cord of light grew and strengthened until Sherlock felt his very _being_ become the light he had struggled so long to connect with, the darkness banished from his presence.

Flesh knitted itself together again. Strength poured like hot water over aching muscles.

Painfully, determinedly, Sherlock rose to both feet.

"How?" The Supreme Leader was forced to speak once again, as his slimy reach could no longer penetrate Sherlock's consciousness. Despite the howling storm of darkness and lightening around them, Mycroft's voice was still crystal clear in all its raspy obscureness. "It simply isn't possible! You aren't good! You aren't a Jedi!"

But his words meant nothing in comparison to the light.

Sherlock took a slow step forward. "That's where you're wrong!" He shouted back. "Nothing is impossible." Another step. "I might've killed all those people. I might've been the reason our parents are dead. But I didn't _choose_ to do that."

"There is no choice!" The Supreme Leader screamed, his efforts redoubling although the lightening did nothing more than skitter harmlessly around Sherlock's being as the younger brother took another step forward.

"There's _always_ a choice," Sherlock's voice was cold as he stared at the remains of the man who had once been his hero. "And I choose the light," Another step forward as the wind howled ever more. "And I _am_ a Jedi!" One more step, despite the aches, despite the pains. His grip tightened on his lightsaber, as he finally was mere inches away from the one he once called brother. "I _am_ good!"

And with that the storm stopped, and the throne room came back into view. And Sherlock Holmes stood mere inches away from the Supreme Leader, the open end of his lightsaber handle directly over the monster's heart.

"Sherlock," The panic was evident in Mycroft's eyes even as his voice fought for a modicum of dignity, his mind grasping at straws. "You wouldn't kill your own brother, would you?"

Sherlock's eyes were impassive, his features cold.

The flash of blue as the lightsaber turned on wasn't the only reason the Supreme Leader jolted in his seat.

"My brother died a long time ago," Sherlock said, as the remains of the galaxy's tyrant tumbled off the throne, dead.

/

Mycroft Holmes had finally died with everything he ever wanted.

His little brother before him.

And his sole, undivided attention.

/

Although she knew it was coming, Molly still felt herself startle a bit when Sherlock ignited his light saber and finally slayed the monster from his childhood.

For a moment, she watched as the body tumbled to the floor, caught in a state of disbelief and utter relief.

She was _free._

Free of the Supreme Leader, but more importantly, free of her _secrets._ Sherlock hadn't turned to the dark, as his brother had been so sure of and she had once so feared. Rather, he found the light within himself.

Molly felt as though she would burst with pride.

Her thoughts were still murky, and exhaustion was starting to settle, but when Sherlock turned to look at her, everything else disappeared.

He stumbled off the dais and she rushed towards him, meeting not quite half way, sinking to their knees as she wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her nose into the crook of his neck, as he did likewise to her.

"You did it," There were tears running down her cheeks as she squeezed him tighter to herself. "You did it, Sherlock."

Despite the obvious exhaustion she could feel rolling off of him through the bond, he summoned the strength to raise his head and meet her eyes.

 _Oh,_ how she had missed those eyes.

"No, Molly Hooper," His forehead came to rest on hers, their noses brushing. " _We_ did it. All of us. You, me, _and_ Lestrade. Because it was the two of you who believed in me when it mattered most. It was the two of you who anchored me to the light."

Molly wasn't sure how long they stayed like that, her face falling back into the crook of Sherlock's neck, their bodies pressed desperately together as though they feared that if they let go the other would disappear from reach once more.

Sobbing for all they had lost. Relieved at what they had gained.

If not for the sudden footsteps and the sound of the emergency metal blockade going up, they might've stayed like that forever. But as it was, they were disturbed by the sudden commotion, as two figures burst into the room.

Molly, in much better shape than Sherlock was fairing, reacted first, springing to her feet and calling her lightsaber to life as she stepped protectively in front of where Sherlock was still blinking in confusion on the ground.

The man and the woman both held up their blasters in surprise, their eyes scanning the carnage in the room. Molly would've advanced had it not been for Sherlock's sudden hand on her shoulder as he got to his feet.

"It's alright," His baritone broke the hum of weaponry. "They're with me."

The two suddenly skidded to a halt at Sherlock's voice, looking past her with disbelief, their blasters lowering a fraction. It was the man who stepped forward, pale, almost sickly white, and asked: "Sherlock?"

She felt Sherlock step beside her, and despite leaning heavily against her side, he remained upright and quirked an eyebrow. "Obviously."

"We- I-" The shorter man stumbled over his words, and then before Molly knew what had happened, he was suddenly beside them and crushing Sherlock in a hug. "I thought you were _dead_."

Molly took a step away in surprise, and it was more than evident that Sherlock was shocked by the older man's sudden burst of emotion as he slowly returned the embrace, confusion on his face.

"Well, I'm very much alive as you can see, though a little worse for wear if you can stop squeezing so hard."

Sherlock winced and the shorter man finally released him. "Right, of course, sorry, yeah."

He stayed close as he stepped back, his arm coming up to brace Sherlock's shoulder. Molly could feel her best friend's relief as he was able to shift some of his weight off his feet once more, even as he gave the other man a look of incredulity. "What in the Force made you think that I had died?"

Molly watched as the man and woman shared a look, before the man returned his weary gaze the Sherlock's equally exhausted one.

"We have a lot to catch up on," He stated wryly. "We got into contact with Lady Smallwood and the Resistance fleet is on the way. We'll try to get you up to speed in the mean time."

"Good," Sherlock's arms found their way around the man's shoulder and Molly's own, both in an act of comradery and as a way to support his frame. The other woman – who looked startling familiar for some reason – came up beside the man and threw an arm around his shoulders as well. And for a moment, they all stayed like that in a silent moment of victory, with weary smiles and tired eyes.

Sherlock's gaze caught Molly's once more, even as he addressed his other two friends.

"We've got a lot to tell you guys as well."

/

It was almost surreal how easy the rest of the day was.

The Resistance fleet arrived by the time that the quartet had found their way to the man hangar, and they were quick to take control of the situation. When word got out that the Supreme Leader was dead and that Kylo Ren had shifted sides, it was almost funny how quickly the Stormtroopers threw down their weapons.

The generals and commanders were harder to appease, and most of them had to be released from whichever room they had been locked in at gunpoint. It took hours, but finally the Finalizer was completely controlled by the Resistance, who had immediately started collecting as much intel as was available on the smaller First Order operations.

No one had dared to try to arrest Kylo Ren. But perhaps that was because Sherlock had been glowering over her shoulder all day at anyone who even tried to look their way, despite the exhaustion aching in his bones.

Hours later they had found themselves in a smaller, unoccupied hangar, away from the political chaos that was crawling all over the ship, John and Mary beside them.

They sat on the tarmac, watching the stars through the bay doors, Molly curled up against Sherlock's side, and John and Mary leaning comfortably against each other, their hands intertwined.

Despite the weight in his bones, Sherlock couldn't help but smile as John recounted for the fourth time (each retelling becoming a tad more exaggerated) about the moment he had stopped the blaster bolt with the Force.

Molly gave him a smile. It had been awkward, to say the least, when she had realized that he was the defective Stormtrooper and the Pilot had been the one that she had tortured for a week. But miraculously they did not hold it against her although they were rightfully wary at first.

Now, sitting beside them with Sherlock, she couldn't image anywhere else that she belonged more.

She gave John's leg a tap with her foot when he finished his story. "Well now that you are most definitely Force sensitive, you're going to have to be trained by the last Jedi," She smiled, nudging Sherlock's ribs. "Let's hope that he's a better teacher than he was a student."

Her comment earned a couple of snickers, and an embellished eye roll from her best friend. But when their amusement died down, she was surprised by the seriousness of Sherlock's familiar baritone as he said, "I'm not the last Jedi."

Mary quirked an eyebrow. "I thought you said that Lestrade knighted you in the cargo hold."

"He did," Sherlock being Sherlock, he didn't bother to expound, forcing John to roll his eyes and speak up.

"I hate to break it you, Sherlock, but if all the other Jedi are gone and you were knighted, that means that you're the last Jedi."

"And once again, John, you see but you don't observe," Sherlock tsked, but there was a warmth to his voice that voided any harshness in his comment. "A Jedi is someone who chooses to do what's right despite everything else. Of course there is the Force, but the real power lies in doing what is right, by choosing to do good. In that sense, we are _all_ Jedi. You, me, Mary and Molly," Sherlock met each of their gazes in turn as he continued.

"Because despite everything, despite our circumstances trying to raise us as a murderer," John had to look away under the honesty of Sherlock's gaze. "Despite being tossed into situation after situation after situation," Mary didn't quite look away, but she did tighten her grip on John's hand. "Despite believing that we were past being redeemed," Molly closed her eyes and leaned further into Sherlock. "And despite being told that we were always destined for the darkness, we _still did what was right._ And if that doesn't make us all Jedi, then nothing ever will."

Silence descended amongst the group as they acknowledged the honesty of Sherlock's words. And as they sat there, staring at the stars, they all realized that Sherlock was undoubtedly right.

They were four people who had become so much more than who they originally thought they were.

John Watson, the Stormtrooper, who had been raised his entire life being taught how to kill, tortured and conditioned until he had been a mere fragment of who he was meant to be, and yet _still_ finding the strength within himself to break free of the First Order and help Sherlock.

Mary Morstan, the Resistance Pilot, who had spent her life lost in the political turmoil of the war, fighting for something she didn't believe in, and more importantly, finding something to _hope_ in. Giving herself a reason to go on when everything else seemed to tell her not to.

Molly Hooper. The fallen, almost-Jedi. The ruthless Commander of the First Order. The murderous Kylo Ren. But more importantly: The woman who did what was _right_ after years of believing she couldn't anymore.

And finally, Sherlock Holmes, child of the darkness, purveyor of the light, and harbinger of balance. The one who realized that what really defined a person was the qualities that they chose to pursue, and that _everyone,_ including himself, could choose to be good. And that _everyone,_ including himself, could choose to be bad.

The name that one makes for oneself is not written in stone. Destiny was what one forged for oneself. And it all started with the decisions that one made.

And so they sat, John, Mary, Molly, and Sherlock. From all different backgrounds, and with all different stories, but all the same ending because they _chose_ for it to be so.

The Stormtrooper, the Resistance Pilot, The First Order Commander, and the Jedi.

The _Hope_ that won the war.


End file.
